


Five Stages

by thememoriesfire



Series: Eyes Closed to Fingers Crossed [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, the stages of coming out,” Blaine says casually.  “Denial, anger, bargaining...”</p><p>“Those are the stages of grief,” Santana interjects.  “And I’m not <em>dying</em>.”</p><p>Kurt blows on her nails and gently says, “This isn’t so different.  I mean, if you want to be dramatic <em>and</em> honest about it, part of you is dying.”</p><p>There isn’t an eye-roll big enough in the universe.</p><p>[Santana deals with the coming out process; set after 2x16, "Original Song", and abandoning canon forever after that.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My gratitude to B for proofing, as always.
> 
> [This story takes off from 2x16: "Original Song"; the remaining chapters of this story are being edited.]

1.

So, she dumps Sam. It’s not like that wasn’t going to happen anyway; she mostly just started dating him to piss Quinn off, and since that’s having about zero effect there’s no point. He might be on the football team, but the football team is plain up nothing without the Cheerios, so Santana can’t figure out any more reasons to put up with Sam.

She makes sure to do it somewhere public, tosses in as many insults about his face and technique as she possibly can, and then adds that she’d rather go back to screwing Puck, at which point Sam just looks too shocked to even say anything.

On a scale of one to success, she’s always been awesome at getting rid of fodder. This is no different, which is why it’s so fucking insane that Quinn comes to find her in the girls’ bathroom about fifteen minutes later.

“I know we’re not friends,” she says, and Santana just rolls her eyes – it’s not even worthy a ‘duh’, and besides, she doesn’t want to start reapplying her lipstick, “but someone has to ask. What the hell is going on with you?”

Santana presses her lips together twice, then blots them with tissue and finally bins the tissue before turning to Quinn. “What part of ‘we’re not friends’ is overcrowding your puny brain, exactly?”

“Sam’s a nice guy,” Quinn says. She hesitates for a moment and then adds, “He’s not for me, but I don’t really see what would be wrong with him for you.”

Santana sighs and says, “Look, I don’t even want to be talking to you, but if you’re going to stand here to tell me that Fishlips was going to be the love of my life, I think we should probably be asking if _you’re_ okay instead.”

There’s a little bit of old Quinn in the way that she straightens and says, blithely, “Please. Nobody’s talking about love. I just don’t understand why you’d get rid of...”

Santana loses her patience when Quinn just stares at her – it’s like Sam’s guppy expression is infecting the rest of the Glee club or something. “Get rid of what? Just another piece of high school meat whose name I won’t even remember by the time I’m like, twenty two?”

Quinn somehow doesn’t flinch when she finishes her sentence. “No. I don’t see why you’d get rid of the perfect beard.”

Some part of Santana’s head explodes – she’s sure of it, there’s a pop in her brain loud enough to actually be a gunshot; next thing she knows, she has her underarm to Quinn’s throat and Quinn actually looks a little unsettled. “You’ll want to think twice about tossing around words like that, Q. I don’t hit pregnant girls, but I will end you if you start shit with me this year.“

Quinn swallows against her wrist, she can feel it, and then sputters something but there’s no words being made. Santana figures that this is fair game what with the whole boob job reveal, and it’s only when Quinn starts going a little purple in the face that she lets go.

“Nobody cares, Santana,” Quinn says, with a gasp. “The only person who cares is you.”

In retrospect, maybe it would’ve hurt less if Quinn had just slapped her. She has no idea what to say in response, and just grabs her bag and storms out of the bathroom.

*

There are only about five things that Santana is sure about at this moment. It’s an incredibly fucked up feeling, because she’s been sure about nearly everything in her life since she was about ten years old. That’s when she realized that her family was well-off by Lima standards and that she was going to get _out_ of Lima, and that Brittany would be coming with her when she left.

Her entire life plan has been obliterated by some gimp in a wheelchair. The part that chafes the most isn’t that Brittany is too stupid to figure out her feelings, which (now that she’s had some time to think about it) isn’t exactly a surprise. It’s that somehow, boyfriend trumps best friend these days. So much for chicks before dicks – and that just brings back even more unwanted memories of trying to explain to Brittany that that wasn’t an analogy about baby ducks, but something that she and Santana should always, _always_ use as a guide to any choices they make.

It’s not like she’s not still going to get out of Lima. She figures she’ll go to a good school somewhere – Columbia if she can get scholarships, somewhere less accomplished but with a good cheerleading program if she can’t—but she has no idea what she’s going to do when she gets there. When Brittany was part of this plan, it was simple – she’d major in something hardcore and kick ass at it, and Brittany would go to Tisch or Juilliard or something and would starving-artist her way to becoming a famous dancer. Santana would pay the bills, and they’d live together and fuck around a lot and basically be the two most awesome people in the world to ever get out of Ohio.

She has no idea how no part of this plan sounded completely gay to her until about two weeks ago, because it so clearly _is_ , and no matter how many times she tries to take it back with Brittany, somehow she can’t seem to take it back with herself.

The things she is still sure of are all totally unimportant. One, she’s still basically the hottest girl in McKinley High. That used to be helpful; now it’s maybe the one thing between her and an endless row of Slushies. Two, she’d kick anyone’s ass if they attempted to Slushie her. Three, she’s not actually sad that the Cheerios disbanded. Four, she is going to be asking Schue for another solo soon, because that gnome Rachel and Mercedes with all her Aretha-aspirations aren’t the only ones who have a kick-ass voice. And five, dumping Sam was the right thing to do, because after that whole Trouty Mouth thing he fucking hates her and if she’s honest, she thinks he’s a total putz, and nobody needs that five days a week.

There’s something pretty screwed up about what that list has been reduced to; she even tries to write it down on a notepad to see if maybe it will start to make more sense if she just puts it to paper—another Brittany reminder there, who basically can’t remember her own name unless she writes it down. The sheet is balled up and tossed in the bin, and Santana lies back on her bed and wonders what is wrong with her these days.

The sixth thing on the list should be that she’s not gay—but somehow, no matter how many times she tries to write that one down, the pen just sort of freezes on the paper.

That’s why she calls Puck.

*

He shows up, like a good ex-whatever, and brings a six-pack of beer up to her room.

“Where’s your mom?” he asks, shrugging out of his jacket and then tossing her a bottle. “You’re terrifying, but not compared to her, man. I don’t want to get into any trouble for being up here.”

“Relax. She’s not going to be home for another two days.” Santana’s not even sure about that—the days that her parents are gone all more or less blend together, but it’s time for the yearly dermatology conference in SoCal and whatever. It’s not like her parents don’t know about Puck.

“Awesome,” Puck says. Next thing, he’s unbuckling his belt—and this suddenly seems like the most godawful idea she’s ever had.

“Keep your pants on, Puckerman. I didn’t call you so we could hook up,” she says, brusquely. He stops mid-tug on the belt and then sighs.

“Goddamned chicks. It’s like all of you just ever want to talk to me. First Quinn, now you – at least Zizes is pretending I’m going to get something out of it.”

Santana frowns at him. “Quinn? What did Princess Perfect want to talk to you about?”

Puck sits down next to her on the bed, a somewhat gentlemanly distance away, and looks intently at his own bottle of beer. “She’s figured out like, I don’t know. Some sort of visitation thing set up, with Rachel’s mom. She wanted to see if I wanted in on it.”

Santana doesn’t know how it’s possible to keep forgetting that Quinn’s child is now Rachel’s sister, sort of, but every time someone brings it up she has to fight laughter. “And?”

Puck shrugs. “We’ll see. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do about it. Like, bring a present?” He scratches at his head. “What do one year olds like?”

Santana pulls on her bottle and then makes a face. “Why the hell are you asking me?”

They laugh a moment later; maybe calling Puck wasn’t such a stupid idea after all. He hums a bit of some song for a while—something country, she can’t place it—and then says, “So what’s going on with the Wonder Twins?”

Her okay mood evaporates almost on the spot. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You and Britt,” Puck says, casually. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t really care, but since we’re here to talk and shit, let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Santana says, shortly.

“Whatever. I mean, I can count on one hand the number of times we hooked up without her there this past year. And, like, I’ve seen enough porn to know that a threesome generally involves a lot more dick than it does with you two. So what’s up?”

She puts her empty bottle on the floor and carefully says, “Nothing’s up. She’s with Artie now.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So—she’s with fucking Artie now,” Santana repeats. There is no real way to explain anything else without talking about shit that she really doesn’t want to, and after a moment she can feel Puck shift to look at her.

“What am I doing here, Lopez?” he asks, after a long moment of studying her. She doesn’t fidget, of course, but it was getting awkward anyway.

She sighs and says, “Just fucking stop talking” before reaching for his belt.

*

When it’s done, she feels exhausted. It’s not because it was particularly energetic—Puck even mumbled something about saving his energy for Lauren, that douche, but got her off just fine even with his half-assed effort—but just because she’s never actually regretted doing anyone before.

Santana Lopez: not the queen of regrets. That’s Quinn, or maybe even Rachel. But she doesn’t really do them. So it’s fucking exhausting, this sleeping with Puck and feeling shitty about it thing that’s going on right now. She didn’t even feel shitty about sleeping with Finn, and objectively, that was a below-the-gut move, even for her.

Puck, to his credit, just pulls his pants on again and then gives her another beer. The room is too small, too hot and too quiet for a moment, until he says, “You’re not gay.”

“Excuse me?” she bites out.

“Dude, calm down. I’m just saying. You’re not gay – you’ve slept with way too many guys on the team to be gay. That’s not how gay works.”

“Puck, shut up. I don’t need an explanation of what _gay_ is—why the hell are you telling me this?” she demands.

Puck shrugs. “Quinn was being weird tonight. I don’t know. Just—you really should know that you’re not gay, you know. What we just did was basically the opposite of gay.”

She once again finds herself without words; and there’s something so pathetic about her only default response being tossing him out that she just sort of lies there, dumbly.

“Besides—look at Hummel. _That’s_ gay. You’re hot, you have guys crawling over glass to get at you. You don’t wear flannel, you don’t listen to the Indigo Girls, you have long hair...”

“Are you done?” she interjects. “Because I’m done listening, and you can tell Quinn that she’s fucking crazy _and_ that she can mind her own business. I don’t send someone over to her house to stage an intervention about her loopy-ass bitch crush on Finn.”

She can feel Puck examining her again, but then he just hops off the bed with a shrug. “Whatever. And like, don’t tell Lauren about this—she probably doesn’t even care, but... I’m trying, seriously.”

“That’s disgusting,” Santana says, and throws his shirt at him. “And why the fuck would I tell her? It’s not like I have anything to gain from destroying that rhinoceros you’re trying to mount these days.”

“That’s never exactly stopped you before,” Puck points out.

“Yeah, well,” Santana says, and watches him go.

*  
The next day is like any other day. She applies some make-up, starts pulling her hair up into a pony before remembering that she doesn’t have to anymore, and then goes on her morning run just because she’s tired of so many things changing, all at once. Besides, being single is no excuse for letting go after five years of the world’s craziest but rewarding exercise diet.

Her run takes her past Brittany’s house and some part of her expects to find Britt stretching out her calves on the mailbox—which, yeah, it’s surreal how flexible she is, and those are exactly the kind of thoughts that she doesn’t want to be having anymore, about Britt or anyone. So, it’s nothing but a relief when there’s nobody outside of the Pierce household, and the sprinkler’s somehow come on at a different time.

By the time she gets to school, she feels mostly okay. She seems Sam and ignores him, which is fine because he has this sort of this bitch-slapped hurt look on his face and she just does _not_ have the time to deal with it. She sees Artie and turns a corner; bam, easy fix. Then, she sees Rachel Berry, and feels the usual urge to heave at her outfit. All completely normal so far, so good.

“Move it, dyke,” someone says behind her; then she’s elbowed in the shoulder hard. She’s already clutching it when half the football team strolls past her. Some of the guys stare at her mockingly; others just look confused, all _didn’t you used to polish my pole?_

She thinks about what Brittany said, about how she would beat the crap out of anyone who said anything shitty to her about anything, and well-yeah. There was never a single part of Santana that doubted that she would, but then she’d never considered that she’d be taking on the all Titans all at once. (She knows, _knows_ , that half the school thinks she’s probably taken them all on in a different way, but that too is bullshit.)

Karofsky turns around with a sneer and says, “This is why they shouldn’t let girls stare up other girls’ skirts all day. Fucking Cheerios, man.”

Adams high-fives him. There’s laughter, and she just can’t seem to move; not even when she hears the tell-tale crinkle of a plastic lid being taken off a paper cup and, oh God, this isn’t actually happening to her—

 _Splash_.

*

Mercedes and Rachel are the ones to find her and take her into the girls’ bathroom. Mercedes mutters a few things about those dumb assholes on the football team, and Rachel just very carefully wipes the worst of it off her face.

It takes her a whole minute to snap out of the shock of it, and then she bats Rachel’s hand away. “Get off me, God.”

Rachel’s hand drops without protest, and she takes a step back before sighing. “I hate this school sometimes.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Mercedes agrees, taking another paper towel and handing it to Santana. Her shirt is fucking ruined. _Ruined._

“Is there any way to wash this shit out?” she asks.

“Cold, two spin cycles, add some lemon juice,” they say, almost in tandem.

Santana tries to forget how it is they even know that.

Rachel winces and adds, “Though, that shirt is uncommonly white—it may leave a trace, Santana. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Santana says, and forces herself to straighten up—easy as, she just needs to imagine Coach Sylvester standing behind her with that bullhorn megaphone, and her spine ramrods instinctively. “They got me by surprise. They won’t again.”

Mercedes and Rachel exchange a look, and then Rachel just leaves the bathroom, with nothing more than a slight touch to Santana’s shoulder. God, how soft do they think she’s gone in the head? She half-snarls at Rachel and even then, she just gets an understanding look in kind. It’s horrible. Worse than the Slushie, even.

Mercedes washes her hands—somehow also Slushie-blue, and Santana tries not to think about how Brittany would just say something dumb like _‘Smurfs are awesome_ ’, not even to try and make Santana feel better but because that’s just how her mind works—and then folds her arms together across her chest and gives Santana a critical look.

“What?” she asks. It’s meant to come out acerbically. She sounds weak even to herself, though.

“Girl, you have really made a mess of things,” Mercedes says.

Santana angrily shuts off the tap and tries to do something with her bangs to get them back in order, but it’s like they’ve had product in them, they’re just all over the place. “Whatever. Karofsky and those other dicks are just showing the school that they’re top tier now that the Cheerios are no more. It was bound to happen.”

“Mmhm,” Mercedes says, leaning back against the sinks and looking away from Santana.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Seriously—don’t give me this. If you have something to say, just spit it out.”

Mercedes takes a deep breath. “You know, I love Brittany as much as the next girl does, but you should know better than anyone that she can’t keep a secret for the life of her.”

Santana’s hand limply falls away from her forehead. “So?”

“So—she pulled all the girls in glee aside after practice yesterday, when you ran off home early or whatever, and told us that she’s worried that she may have, quote, turned your heart to stone.” Mercedes smiles faintly and then gives Santana an incredible raised-eyebrow look. “What’s up with that, huh?”

This is just too much. It’s too tiring, and Santana forces herself to stay upright, both hands on the sink, elbows locked. “Christ,” she mutters.

“I don’t know how Karofsky and those clowns found out, but—this isn’t a secret, Santana. You can pretend it is, but people know.”

Santana shakes her head. “People think they know. They don’t know _shit_.”

“Well, either way, you have a target painted on your forehead now,” Mercedes says, gently. “And you are going to have to figure out some way to deal.”

Santana’s quiet for a long moment, before realizing she’s not actually embarrassed enough about her own history with the Slushie brigade to ask the question. “So how do you?”

“Deal with being a loser?” Mercedes asks. She sounds almost amused. “How do you think? You stick together, get a crew. There’s strength in numbers.”

A sort of cracked laugh worms its way out of Santana’s throat. “Please. I’d rather get Slushied every day than try to become Rachel Berry’s best friend.”

“I hear you,” Mercedes says, also grinning. “But we’re not all as lame as Rachel. And, hey, your voice is the bomb. Mr. Schue eventually is going to stop seeing the sun shining out of Rachel’s ass, and at that point, you and I should be a united front. You know what I’m saying?”

She doesn’t expect to smile, but she does. “I’m not sharing solos with anyone, you diva.”

“Bitch, please—nobody’s talking about solos. The rest of these fools are eventually going to figure out that the key to Nationals is duets, and nobody’s voices blend like ours do,” Mercedes says confidently.

Santana almost says something dumb like, _you’re not a loser, you know_ , but that’s just a little too after-school-special. Instead, she says, “All right. I can handle an alliance.”

Mercedes purses her lips and says, “And I’ll see what I can do about Rachel. She seems to think you fighting with Brittany is ruining our group dynamic. I told her you’d eat her spleen for breakfast if she tried to talk to you about it, but—“

“Did someone drop her on her head as a child? I mean, seriously. Stunted growth, can’t speak like a normal person, dress sense of a Teletubby...”

Mercedes laughs. “Seriously, though—she’s going to keep bugging about this. You might want to figure out a way to make peace, or at least pretend that you’re done looking at Brittany like you want to shove her head-first into the Cheerios display case.”

Santana takes a deep breath and then just says, “Fine, whatever.” There’s no point in explaining that the only head she wants to shove into the display case is Artie’s, and there’s just so many reasons—moral and legal—that that would be a bad idea that they’re obvious even to her.

Besides, she figures Mercedes probably already knows. Everyone else seems to.

*

They hang out, sometimes.

Not all of them—Mike and Tina, Mercedes, and of course Kurt and his new boyfriend come along. The first time Santana sees them she almost hyperventilates, until the boyfriend turns out to completely not be into PDA and then they just look as gay together as, well, any other guys would in that ridiculous schoolgirl uniform.

Kurt looks at her across the table—BreadstiX, of course, where the hell else would they go?—with a curious expression throughout most of the meal, until she snaps something at him about his tiny man chest, and then he just resorts to sort of smiling.

It’s incredibly unsettling, and so after about ten more minutes of that bullshit she heads off to the bathroom by herself.

She’s _not_ having a good time, even if she discounts Kurt’s creeping. It’s just—

“Santana,” Kurt says, behind her.

“Jesus Christ,” she explodes. “What is with everyone wanting to talk to me in the fucking bathroom? I have a phone, you know.”

“I don’t have your number,” Kurt says, reasonably, and then leans back against the bathroom door, stopping anyone else from coming in.

“Yeah, don’t worry—that wasn’t just some massive oversight on my part,” Santana throws back at him.

Kurt smiles after a moment. “You really are supremely bitchy. I’ve always admired that about you, Santana.”

She shifts uncomfortably, and then just shrugs. “Most people deserve exactly what they get.”

Kurt looks down at the floor for a moment and then says, “I just wanted to say—I know that you might think I’m on Brittany’s side in ... whatever this is, but I actually don’t really believe in taking sides in disputes that don’t concern me. So, while we briefly dated—“

Santana snorts, and says, “Please.”

“And while she told me how to improve my night-time skin-care routine and taught me how to do a one-handed handstand, I...” Kurt scratches at his cheek for a moment and then says, “If you need to talk to someone, I would not be opposed to listening.”

Santana blinks at him a few times. “Talk about what?”

Kurt hems and haws and then says, “It’s not easy. God knows I know it isn’t easy, and I didn’t have anywhere near as far to fall as you do, Santana.”

“Hummel, I swear to God, if you don’t start making sense in the next five minutes I’m going to string you up by your cravat,” she says. She wonders if her face is as pale as it feels, but there’s no way to find out without giving something up to Kurt, who probably already knows he’s on the right track.

She can visibly seem him relax, in any way, and then he just softly asks, “Have you tried to say it out loud yet?”

Her ego, these days, is like a balloon. It deflates more often than not. “I’m not having this conversation with you. For fuck’s sake, we’re not even friends—and even if we were, I’m still not having this conversation.”

“If you don’t want to talk to me, you could always talk to Blaine. He was very supportive of me, back when I was dealing with ...” The sentence trails off, and when she glances at Kurt’s tiny little-woman face, he looks actively pained.

“With Karofsky,” she finishes.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, and then tips his chin up, looks her straight in the eyes. “I’m sorry that because I left, you’re going to be the one to deal with him.”

Santana exhales through her nose and then says, with as much confidence as she can muster up on the spot, “I can handle him.”

“Be that as it may, there is something you should know that might help,” Kurt says, and then takes a few steps towards her and leans into her, way too closely into her personal space, just to finish in a whisper. “He’s like us, Santana. That’s where it comes from. He threatened to kill me if I ever told anyone, but he hasn’t threatened to kill you. And besides, you don’t take shit like that from anyone. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that you will be the last one standing if he tries anything.”

Santana can’t quite push him away in time; he steps away first, and then just shoots her a knowing look.

“I’m not like either of you,” she says, firmly, and then adds a, “But—whatever. It’s good dirt, I guess. No reason to not knock Karofsky down with it. He’s an asshole either way.”

“Like I said,” Kurt says, airily. “When you’re ready to talk about it, I’ll be happy to listen. It doesn’t have to be painful. I give great manicures, and you are welcome to use that as a pretext for coming by.”

She rolls her eyes, and he smiles faintly before exiting the bathroom.

*

Mercedes insists that they do something more current than _River Deep, Mountain High_ , and they end up settling on James Morrison’s _Broken Strings_ , because some English girl band added harmonies to that and whatever, it suits their voices. Santana’s has somehow gotten deeper in the last few weeks—she almost punched Berry’s lights out when she asked, in the middle of practice, if Santana had either taken up smoking or had been crying a lot recently because her pitch was going down—and she has the lead part down like woah.

Sam comes up to her after the trial run, shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “I still think you’re a bitch, but that was pretty good.”

“Whatever. I don’t need your approval, Anne Hathaway,” she replies. It’s meant to come out dismissive and cruelly, but Sam just rolls his eyes at her.

She realizes she’s smiling when Quinn raises an eyebrow at her from the back row. “Whatever,” she mouths, again.

*

Sometimes, Santana wonders if she has the Guinness world record in smile-to-scowl down. Brittany would’ve been happy to help her find out.

*

So, maybe she has friends now.

It doesn’t _mean_ anything. Karofsky still calls her Ellen and a ‘fucking lez’ every time she sees him in the hallway, and it’s only Mercedes’ unnatural upper body strength that stop her from throwing down with him.

Quinn stops badgering her about her fucking feelings, but doesn’t stop talking to her altogether. So, they hang out too--at first it’s just because Santana feels a little shitty about that massive bruise on Quinn’s throat, but then it’s because Quinn is like the only other mean girl she knows, and at least Quinn can handle the truth, most of the time.

It’s a little like middle school again—except that they fit on each other’s beds better without Brittany’s ginormous legs taking up half of the mattress and, well, Quinn’s inner bitch has been AWOL since pregnancy, so they listen to country music all the time now.

It’s not actually all that much like middle school, Santana figures, because there isn’t a throne to knock Quinn off of and she really doesn’t have any more secrets to keep.

They’re _actually_ friends now. It’s too bizarre to dwell on, and so instead she goes out to BreadstiX with her posse—it _is_ her posse, no matter how much they want to pretend they’re not—and harasses the wait staff with Kurt and Kurt’s manthing (who, really, is too hot to be sucking face with Hummel) and sings awesome duets with Mercedes and learns some shit about applying eye-liner from Tina that she grudgingly admits makes her own eyes look much better.

The only person that she doesn’t know how to deal with is Mike, and it’s because Mike and Brittany are spending most of their free time together, trying to figure out choreography that even that duck-footed baby Finn and Rachel and her stubby legs can keep up with.

She doesn’t talk to the dancers. That’s just a fact now.

*

 _I miss you_ , the text reads. It’s number forty-something. Santana stopped counting a while ago, deliberately, anyway—but since Britt sends one every night since their last blow-up fight at the lockers, it’s sort of hard not to know.

She figures that it’s only fair that this is happening to her. Brittany would’ve never figured out how to manipulate people’s feelings if she hadn’t been taught by the master. And somewhere along the way, the texts have gone from actually feeling like thumb-tacks rammed straight into her heart to just being a constant reminder of things that used to be and are no more.

Quinn glances at her when she tosses the phone back on her night stand.

“Again?” she just asks.

Santana shrugs and shoves Quinn’s homework back towards her. “Here, you nerd. Making me read over this is a waste of my time. You’re totally going to be valedictorian even if you don’t get an A+ in Spanish.”

Quinn does that thing she sometimes does, where she’s thinking about the future seriously and her hand just sort of unwillingly strays down to her stomach—it’s equal parts endearing and retarded, and Santana can’t help herself when she says, “You know adoption’s permanent, right?”

Quinn looks up at her in surprise. “What?”

“I mean—I looked into this. When you made the decision.” At Quinn’s baffled look, she adds, “Whatever, I’m considering pre-law. But—there’s no way to take it back, unless Rachel’s mom turns out to be as fucking demented as Rachel is, in which case I guess human rights might play a factor...”

Quinn’s expression has frozen in the last few seconds, but then she shakes herself out of it and seems to notice her own hand for the first time. “Yeah. I mean, I know.”

“So—any questions?” Santana says, nodding at the homework again.

“I’d like the A+,” Quinn says, simply. “So—yeah. Explain the past participle to me--what’s wrong with what I did?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “You should start paying me for this.”

“I thought I was. You’re getting the pleasure of my company,” Quinn says, dryly. Santana tosses a pillow at her, and she adds, “Careful, S. I might start to think we’re friends.”

“Whatever, Stretch Mark,” Santana grumbles.

Quinn tuts kind of hilariously primly, but any sort of fun they’re having stops when Quinn’s phone rings a moment later. The respect Santana can’t help but feel for the girl who managed a massive turn-around from Most Destined Towards a Trailer Park evaporates when Quinn gets that stupid, desperate look on her face that means that that Neanderthal she just can’t get over is calling.

Yeah, they’re still dating. Except they spend like, zero time together, working on locking their knees in tandem or whatever it is that Quinn does with her boyfriends. Finn’s kind of a dick, so maybe that’s why--but then she should just end it. Either way, this is bullshit.

“Hey,” Quinn says, softly and weakly, before holding up a hand apologetically to Santana and heading out into the hallway.

Pathetic. It’s just pathetic, and she thinks she would say something about it if it wasn’t going to be repaid with a lecture on Brittany somehow.

 _Pls jst stop txting me,_ she sends over, moments later. It gives her enough ammunition to at least have a somewhat serious conversation with Quinn about her fucking priorities.

*

Kurt really does give amazing manicures. Also, Kurt’s boyfriend is a normal dude who seems to just want to talk to her about things she gives a shit about, and not Milan’s fall fashion.

Santana isn’t going to say she’s having a good time or anything, over in the Hummel/Hudson basement, but it’s also not like being tortured to death with a make-over, so—all in all, a victory.

They’re just talking about nonsense—the best Ke$ha song, which obviously is _We R Who W R_ but Blaine is weirdly partial to _Tick Tock_ —when Blaine drops the copy of _Rolling Stone_ he’s thumbing through and just says, “So, what’s her name?”

“Careful,” Kurt says, yanking her hand back in place. “I’m going to amputate you if you’re not still.”

Blaine gives her a very probing look while she’s sitting there sort of grasping for something to say other than the truth, and when Kurt pinches a cuticle, she just sort of snaps out, “Ow—Brittany” as if it’s one word.

Well, maybe it sort of is, these days.

“Brittany as in...” Blaine says, to Kurt, and Kurt nods shortly. “Ah, I see.”

“It’s—whatever. It’s been two months,” Santana says, dully. Two months, five Slushies, one black eye—courtesy of Adams' elbow, when Puck looked like he was actually going to get _killed_ by his teammates for defending her—and forty eight text messages.

“So you’re moving on?” Blaine asks. He unfolds his legs and stretches out on the sofa, and some part of Santana knows he’s trying to be deliberately casual about it so that she doesn’t freak out again, but the weird part is that it’s kind of working.

Kurt’s managing somehow to make himself invisible, which—with his exceptional diva personality, doesn’t even seem like it should be possible.

The words sort of tumble out. “I guess. I mean, whatever. I gave her a choice, you know? She picked ...” There’s so many parts of this that she doesn’t want to talk about it’s sort of retarded to even be trying. “And now she’s finally stopped texting me, I just—I don’t really want to think about it.”

Blaine hmms. “That still just sounds like stage one to me.”

“Stage one of what?” Santana asks, adding. “Kurt, I swear to God, if you reach for that shade of pink again I will cut you with your own nail file.”

“You know, the stages of coming out,” Blaine says casually. “Denial, anger, bargaining...”

“Those are the stages of grief,” Santana interjects. “And I’m not _dying_.”

Kurt blows on her nails and gently says, “This isn’t so different. I mean, if you want to be dramatic _and_ honest about it, part of you is dying.”

There isn’t an eye-roll big enough in the universe.

“No, really,” Kurt says, sort of pinching her fingers, and she looks at him unwillingly. “You’ve been nothing but a total man-whore for—well, as long as I can remember, anyway. No offense. But it’s been two months since you broke up with Sam Evans, and as far as we all know, you haven’t even so much as _looked_ at another guy since then. So, maybe you’re not looking at Britt either, and that would be healthy at this point—“

“—but you’re basically not looking at all,” Blaine finishes, and then shrugs with a smile. “Capital D Denial.”

Santana tries to glare at them both simultaneously, but Kurt’s gone back to filing her nails and Blaine won’t fucking stop smiling. “Is this an intervention? Because, fuck _whoever_ set this up--was it Quinn? Jesus. Just because I’m not screwing around at the moment...”

“Santana, relax,” Kurt says, pausing to examine his own handiwork. “Nobody put us up to anything. We just...”

“We’ve been there, you know?”

They’re so fucking married. It’s exactly how she and—it’s gross.

“We’ve been there, and we’re aware that it is very difficult to talk to anyone about what you may be going through. There are all sorts of judgments and expectations out there, but, for obvious reasons, there aren’t any in this room. Purple?” Kurt says, in one breath.

“Fine,” Santana says. She’s not entirely sure what part she’s agreeing to, but they seem to be happy leaving the entire conversation there, and she leaves Kurt’s home twenty minutes later with perfect nails and absolutely nothing that she wants to think about.

*

The final nail in the coffin is Rachel Berry coming up to her after practice and telling her something about how perfect pitch can be a really desirable qualities in partners, so it’s good that Santana _almost_ has it, or whatever.

“What is your fucking problem?” Santana just asks.

Rachel looks astonished. “Nothing, I just—wanted to say that I thought you sang very well today.”

“Well, then why can’t you just _say that_ , Rachel?” Santana asks, completely exasperated with the conversation, and another hour of watching Brittany play with Artie’s fingers, and a simultaneous hour of having to pretend that Quinn isn’t watching her trying not to watch Brittany—it’s just too fucking much.

Rachel seems taken aback for all of two seconds, and then sits down next to Santana—uninvited, of course, but at least Santana’s no longer being dwarfed by a dwarf. “I don’t know,” Rachel says.

“We really would all hate you much less if you could just _be_ a fucking person, you know.”

Rachel tucks hair behind her ear and says, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help it, a lot of the time. My dads went overboard a little on trying to make sure they would raise me right—the expectation on them, as two men raising a girl... I mean, I understand why they did what they did, but starting SAT Prep when I was five—“

Santana laughs without meaning to. “Seriously?”

Rachel, to her credit, rolls her eyes a little. “I have an extensive vocabulary. It just feels like I’m trying to act stupid to please other people if I don’t use it. But—you’re right. A more direct approach is probably less irritating.”

Santana doesn’t say anything in response. She’s not going to like, thank Rachel for saying something halfway nice—not how she rolls. But she also doesn’t really feel like telling her to fuck off, for a change, so they just sit there for a moment.

“They have always been good to me, you know,” Rachel says, softly. The rest of the club is done packing up; Brittany’s wheeled Artie by and Santana has very deliberately not looked at that, either.

“Who?”

“My dads. I couldn’t wish for anyone better to have raised me. They nurtured my talents, they shielded me from the worst of the insults until I was old enough to handle them...” Rachel trails off, and then there’s a fucking _hand_ on her arm—Santana’s about a pulse away from yanking away when Rachel just says, “I just thought you should know. I sometimes think about what it would have been like to be in Beth’s position... but I would much rather have my dads. Even if they are gay, and having two gay parents isn’t easy in a town like this. They’re perfect, to me.”

Santana bites down on her cheek, hard. It is _ridiculous_ to feel anything at any of that, let alone coming from Rachel’s mouth, who just—really needs to mind her own business.

Rachel gets up again and reaches for her bag. “Incidentally, if you are serious about singing a solo at Nationals, I have some exercises that will really relax your larynx...”

“Rachel—shut up,” Santana says, but it somehow comes out sounding like _thank you_.

*

“How did you know?” she asks Kurt and Blaine, who are somehow sharing a milkshake across from her without making her vomit. She doesn’t even really know where she _is_ , except the place they’re in—the Lima Bean—is full of boys and girls in school uniforms, and so she figures they’re right around the corner from Dalton.

“I’ve always known,” Kurt says, easily. “That wasn’t the hard part. It was telling others.”

Blaine swallows a sip and then sits back a bit. “I... thought I knew, for a long time. But then—Rachel kissed me, and I wasn’t sure.”

“No, what you were was drunk, sweetie,” Kurt says, with a condescending pat to Blaine’s hand. Santana snorts laughter.

“Yeah, and so I kissed her again—and then I knew,” Blaine says, not responding to the jibe at all.

Santana stares at her espresso for a moment and then grimaces when she says, “I’ve—I mean, I know everyone thinks I might as well open my own strip club tomorrow—“

“Ouch,” Blaine says, raising his eyebrows.

“No, it’s true,” Kurt and Santana say in tandem. She shoots him a glare; he just shrugs.

“What I mean is, a lot of that is just rep. I’ve—been around, with guys, obviously, but--“ Ugh, she suspects she’s biting her lip, like she’s turning into Quinn or something. “That thing with Brittany, that was just... I mean, we started doing it for attention.”

“Sure,” Blaine says.

Santana twists her mouth. “And then it just sort of never... stopped.”

She leaves it there, what with Kurt starting to look faintly green around the gills, and Blaine just looking pensive.

“You need to go and kiss some girls,” he finally says.

“Uh, no,” she responds, immediately. “ _That_ is just about the opposite of what I need to be doing. I already have the entire jockstrap population of McKinley riding my ass on a rumour—I don’t want to fan the fire.”

“Santana, you need to stop kidding yourself,” Kurt says, finishing the last of the milkshake. “Whatever you and Brittany did, and believe me, I’m the last person who wants to know—but that right there was enough to make you anything but straight. At this point, it’s just words you’re fighting.”

She doesn’t point out that they’re pretty big words. They know, and besides, that would be beyond weak to say out loud.

“Who do you think would be up for it?” Blaine asks Kurt.

Kurt pensively twirls the straw in their milkshake. “Okay—out of my admittedly small sample size, my first answer would be ‘not Mercedes’; after that it would be, not anyone else we know, either. Britt aside. She’d make out with a banana if you told her it was good luck.”

“Hey,” Santana protests. (Even though it’s totally true.)

“What about Rachel?” Blaine asks. “She—absolutely loved realizing I was gay. Said it would give her writing material. I’m sure this would fall in the same bracket.”

Somehow, Santana has managed not to vomit at the idea. Of course, that is before Kurt looks at Blaine with an impressed face and says, “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Rachel,” they both say, and look at her expectantly.

“That’s...” she says, before her brain just freezes on any response completely. And _not_ in a good way, but they don’t seem to be picking up on that part.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, enthusiastically.

“No,” she finally spits out. “Absolutely fucking not. It’s—what is worse than social suicide? Like, when you’re already a loser and _then_ your five remaining friends have you institutionalized because you’ve just made out with the resident garden gnome? It’s _that_.”

“Don’t worry, Santana, it’s not like you have to marry her—it’s just to answer that question you must be having by now. If you’re only attracted to Brittany, or attracted to girls in a broader sense.”

Blaine calls for the check and pays for it. Santana wonders if she’s having some sort of really fucked up dream because she ate too much cheese last night, or whatever. (God, it was just one piece of string cheese. It’s like Coach Sylvester is watching her or something).

She pinches herself, hard, and scowls when her skin just pinks but _nothing actually changes_.

“We’ll make it happen. She has mentioned she feels a bit left out, being the closest thing to a homosexual back in Lima—you know, her dads and all,” Kurt says, letting Blaine help him back into his coat. They are just so domestic, it’s—not important, now that they’re trying to set her up with _Rachel fucking Berry_.

“This is not happening,” she finally says, when they both just smile at her.

“Relax. Rachel’s a pretty good kisser,” Blaine says, laughing and ducking when Kurt swats at him. “What? It’s true.”

“No, I mean _this isn’t happening_. I don’t—I’m not going to sample around McKinley high to figure out if maybe Britt and I hooking up was just an accidental birth, like, too many years of doing flips gone to our heads or whatever. And I’m _especially_ not going to try and figure out if I’m _gay_ by making out with _Rachel fucking Berry_.”

They both smile at her like demented, proud parents, even though she’s clearly furious, and it just notches her anger up to another level.

“ _What_?”

“First time’s always the hardest, Santana,” Kurt says.

“It totally is. So, you know—well done on getting the words out there so soon,” Blaine adds. “I think we’re going to leave before you formally reach stage two of processing, though.”

“Yeah—I don’t want to be around for real anger. It’s bound to be more ugly than your usual stereotypical Latina tantrums,” Kurt says, with a wince.

“I hate you both,” Santana says, without any real feeling in it, because she’s not dumb; she knows what they honed in on, and those little five words— _figure out if I’m gay_ —just keep playing on her head in repeat.

The drive back to Lima is a good 45 minutes; she can’t drown out her own voice until she gets back home and cranks up some L’il Jon for her evening work-out. Only when she’s exhausted and sweating like crazy does she look at her phone and those forty-eight text messages again.

“Shit,” Santana says, out loud, and wonders what to do next.

(Whatever it is, it better not involve Rachel Berry’s lips.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties here with guessing how the school year would evolve given that Glee doesn't really do continuity or explanations; Nationals are up first, and prom will follow from that, for no other reason than that it works better for the story and that to my mind, prom really should mark the end of a school year.

2.

So, Nationals are coming up.

They’re rehearsing all the time these days; it’s like Cheerios minus the constant threat of enemas. Everyone else seems to be suffering--Tina’s back went out a few days ago on a spin with Mike, Rachel sang until she literally passed out last Tuesday--but Santana feels mostly okay. Physically, anyway. She’s in the best shape of her life now that she no longer needs to ice down her calves every single night just to be able to walk the next day.

She gets away with not thinking too much about how she’s doing _generally_ , even though Mr. Schue has now asked her about three times if everything is okay and, like, he really needs to learn a thing or two about boundaries. If she wanted to talk to someone about her feelings--which she doesn’t--she’d go and seek out that goggle-eyed nutbag guidance counselor, who would probably force hand sanitizer up her nostril if she knew half the things Santana had running around her mind.

Adults are such a mess; not that she didn’t know that from watching her parents (or Brittany’s, really, who are in some serious denial about the amount of medication their kid should be on) but it’s something to cling to on days like today, when Quinn is trying for the seventh time to talk her through the choreography on their closing number--which like, they haven’t even decided on a fucking song yet, but they have the dance moves all down because this is about the upper limit of what the average glee club kid can handle.

“Left, left, right--” Quinn says, and then sighs. “No, sorry--another left.”

Santana manages to stop mid-spin without falling, somehow, but the wobble is embarrassing enough. She feebly aims a kick at Quinn’s shin. “What is up, Gidget? You know how to run through a drill.”

Quinn blows her hair out of her face, takes a deep breath and says, “I’m _exhausted_ , and I have a history test to study for. Also, this isn’t like teaching choreography to Brittany; _she_ would’ve nailed it by now.”

Sometimes, she still really hates Quinn. “Fuck off, Q. You’re doing a half-assed job here and you know it.”

Quinn glances over Santana’s shoulder and makes her best dumb/innocent face, which isn’t very good. “Fine. Why don’t you find someone new to bitch around, then?”

Santana doesn’t need to turn to know who’s behind her; she can pretty much picture it, actually. Britt leaning against a wall, doing her best imitation of looking casual, but she’s probably incredibly nervous--she doesn’t know how to deal with people not liking her, because everyone likes her. Liked her.

“I’ll get you for this,” Santana mumbles when Quinn walks by her. Quinn just shrugs and then says a few soft words to Brittany, who says, “Okay” in response.

Santana still can’t bring herself to turn around.

So, inevitably, Britt walks up to her, moves in front of her and says, “Quinn says you need help. I don’t understand. You’ve always been good.”

They have not been this close to each for months now; that’s been a challenge in and of itself, but Santana’s nothing if not expert at avoiding things she doesn’t want to deal with. Except, now it’s just the two of them, in the Choir room, and she can’t run off without looking like a giant pussy. Maybe she’s tired of looking and feeling like that.

“I’ve always been good when you were there to teach me,” she says, instead. Damn, if only there was some way to say things like that (they’re true) without sounding so pathetic.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Brittany points out.

Santana sighs. “No, you didn’t. That’s kind of the issue, isn’t it?”

The really crazy thing is that she’s been waiting for Brittany to just show up one day and be like, “So Artie and I broke up”, and maybe the most pathetic thing of all is that she would’ve taken her back, just like that. But it never happened; Brittany never showed, Brittany never broke up with Artie, and now, months later, she’s looking at her best friend like she doesn’t even _know_ her anymore.

Brittany looks torn. “I--why aren’t we friends anymore?”

“Because,” Santana says. That clearly isn’t going to cut it, but she’ll die before she lets Brittany just tear her feelings open like that again. And so there’s a more hurtful truth, one that she forces out. “I don’t roll with anyone who dates a total loser.”

“All your friends are losers now,” Brittany counters. “I mean. _You’re_ a loser now.”

Santana feels her face harden. “Really. Do you _really_ want to go there?”

“No? I mean, go where?”

“Jesus, it is fucking _impossible_ to talk to you sometimes,” Santana bitches.

The hurt look on Brittany’s face would’ve made her insides contort like they were being blended a few months ago, but suddenly, nothing about this situation seems fair anymore. So what if Britt is too dumb to know why she’s angry? It doesn’t mean that she _isn’t_ \--that she doesn’t have every right to be.

“I’m sorry,” Brittany says. She’s so helpless, and Santana feels her skin prickle with rage.

“Yeah, you’re always sorry. You’re sorry when you accidentally tell all of our friends that we’re doing it on the sly; you’re sorry when you blew our shot at Regionals last year. You’re real fucking sorry when you suggest something as balls-out insane as us singing some sort of lesbian love song together, except that you’re _not_. You’re not even sorry enough to apologize for putting that shit out there--no, you just keep it there, and you date that legless halfwit like you would _ever_ want to be with someone who can’t even dance with you--”

“That’s not fair,” Brittany blurts out, looking shocked. “He dances, in his own way--”

“--and then when I finally think this is all just in the past, you want to talk about your fucking feelings. So we do, and I tell you exactly how I feel, and you say _thanks, but I love my crippled, dumb ass boyfriend_. And maybe you didn’t mean it, Britt, but that’s the problem with you. You never mean it. You never mean _anything_ , because you don’t understand _anything_.”

She’s shaking by the time she’s done; almost crying for absolutely no reason, except maybe the look on Brittany’s face.

“When I didn’t understand things, you used to explain them to me,” Brittany finally says, and oh. There’s a tremor in her voice, and somehow, Santana knows, after ten years of friendship, she’s finally going to make Brittany cry.

Even seeing that isn’t enough to stop her from saying, “Yeah, well. Maybe you need to find a new life coach. Because I’m done with this--with you.”

Brittany shifts from one foot to the other, sniffles hard, just once, and then sighs. “I want to say I’m sorry, but I’m worried you’ll just yell more.”

The anger evaporates, just like that, and for one horrible moment Santana thinks she’s going to be unable to stop herself; that she’s going to take it all back, and she’s going to manipulate Brittany into thinking that girls together isn’t cheating, but she digs her nails into her hand and forces herself to just let it go.

“No--you can say you’re sorry. And you know what? I’m sorry, too.”

Brittany looks less upset almost immediately. “So you don’t actually need help with the choreography, right.”

“No, I don’t. Quinn’s a lazy bitch, but she’ll teach me.”

Brittany chews her lip for a moment and then, unexpectedly lucid, says, “I think we’ll be friends again. Not tomorrow, but like--sometime.”

Santana feels a lot of things that she wishes she didn’t, but for now, she mostly just feels relieved. “Yeah, I guess. Sometime.”

*

Quinn’s still in the parking lot when she exits, leaning against her car. Santana just shoots her a look and Quinn and immediately says, “I know you think I’m overstepping a gross number of boundaries here, but--”

“No, it’s cool,” Santana says, opening the back door and throwing her bag onto the back set. “You’re in the middle of all of it; I’m not going to pretend it’s none of your business.”

Quinn tilts her head. “Seriously. That’s all the crap you’re going to give me.”

Santana cracks her knuckles and her neck and then gestures at the passenger seat. “No. We’re going to have a serious talk about you and that overgrown baby you just can’t seem to let go of, but we’re going to do it somewhere else, and with some alcohol.”

Quinn half-snorts, but gamely gets into the car anyway.

*

Santana knows she’s drunk when her mind-to-mouth filter just craps out altogether, and she turns to Quinn and says, “What would be worse--your kid ending up mostly like Puck, or mostly like Rachel?”

Quinn looks horrified for a moment, before taking another gulp of tequila straight from the still almost-full bottle (pilfered from the always-unlocked liquor cabinet in the Lopez household; it’s not that her parents trust her, it’s that they forget she lives there most of the time) and then grimacing. “That is the worst question I’ve ever been asked.”

“Seriously though,” Santana presses, pinching the bottle. “I mean--Rachel’s a crazy ass midget, but she’s also going to be like, president some day. Or at least the next Meryl Streep. Puck’s relatively normal in comparison, and he’s hung like a --”

“Ugh,” Quinn groans. “A, I don’t remember; B, I don’t want to remember, and C, my _tiny infant daughter_ is not going to be hung like anything.”

“Whatever--all I mean is, just because he’s going to knock over a 7-11 for a bottle of bourbon at some point in his life and probably have some baby daddy in prison that he won’t ever want to talk about, doesn’t mean that he’s all that bad.”

Quinn sighs and closes her eyes. “Is it too much to ask for that Beth ends up mostly like me?”

“What, uptight and virginal until some dude in a leather jacket talks her into giving it up in exchange for a Bacardi Breezer?”

Quinn somehow manages to roll her eyes without opening them. It’s impressive. “I meant driven, and smart. By Ohio standards, anyway.”

Santana knows it’s like poking a bear with a stick, but whatever. “So--more like Rachel, then.”

“Rachel’s not so bad,” Quinn finally says, and then blinks blearily at Santana. “I just hate her because she got the better parts of Finn, and the better parts of show choir, and--she’s going to get out of Lima without having a baby to come back to, you know.”

“All the boys want her,” Santana says. They both make a face. “I don’t get it. She doesn’t even put out, you know?”

Quinn smiles faintly. “That was never a problem for me.”

“Yeah, but -- you’re _you_ ,” Santana says. That sounded dumb enough for her to check the contents of the tequila bottle, which is ... still mostly full. Damn it.

Quinn’s grin, meanwhile, is growing. “So--if you had to choose between me and Rachel...”

“That’s disgusting. It’s like asking if I want to nail my sister, or some biological experiment to create the perfect fetish toddler,” Santana says.

Quinn just shrugs. “Just trying to see if you have a type.”

Santana knows she’s _very drunk_ when she’s got one or two defensive thoughts about that, but can’t really string them together in words. “Yeah. Anything that has a pulse.”

Quinn’s laughter bubbles up slowly. “Please. You were mostly faithful to Britt. There’s just no way you actually had enough free space in your schedule to sleep around as much as you say you have.”

Santana flops over onto her stomach and spins the bottle cap. “Whatever. Not like you’re one to talk; slutty is for me what virginal is for you.”

“So--is there a type?” Quinn asks, again.

Santana shrugs; the cap spins one last round and then tips over. “Do you have one?”

She sees Quinn’s flinch from the corner of her eye. “Yeah. I want to like boys like Finn, who are dumb and reliable and about as engaging as the average golden retriever--but...”

“Is this about prom?” Santana asks, shooting Quinn a pointed look. “Because, I don’t know how nobody has pointed this out to you before, but you’re basically running unopposed since I don’t give a shit about winning--and you could turn anyone into a prom king. You don’t need Finn.”

Quinn half-shrugs again. The room’s spinning a little, but Santana tries to focus; there’s this little freckle right by Quinn’s eye that she narrows down on. Until she can’t. “I know I don’t, but it was a lot of work to try and get back some of my reputation. I’m not going to blow it on someone with no status, or God forbid, someone with too much bad credit for mine to cover it up.”

Santana claps her hands together lazily. “Spoken like someone bred by Sue Sylvester.”

“No,” Quinn says, firmly. “Spoken like someone who has already made the worst mistake they’re ever going to make. I’ll leave here, someday--and, if I still have a thing for boys in leather jackets who will never amount to anything then, at least my entire friggin’ church won’t be there to judge me for it.”

They’re quiet for a moment; Santana wondering if this is what she should be thinking, too. That it’s just another year or so until she’s the hell out of Ohio and can do whatever she wants to. It’s just another year.

“You know, the longest I’ve ever gone without sex before now is like, three days,” she finally says.

Quinn reaches for the bottle; Santana hands it over without protest. “That’s--I don’t know, am I _supposed_ to be impressed?”

Santana shrugs. “Whatever. What I mean is, Britt and I just--sort of happened. And then it happened again, and then it kept happening, and I always figured it was just something that you did with your best friend, y’know. The non-abstinent one, anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“My point is, she was just Britt,” Santana says. She jolts at herself when she realizes the past tense came out without her even trying. “So--”

“Maybe Kurt and the Warble have a point. You should go and kiss some girls,” Quinn says, sounding sage. “You know--non-abstinent ones, anyway.”

“Please, you wish you could get on this, Fabray,” Santana says, flicking the bottle cap at Quinn’s nose.

*

She learns the choreography within about ten minutes the day after that. Brittany shoots her a hesitant smile from the other side of the room. She _almost_ returns it.

*

The bus ride to nationals is about 8 hours, but it feels more like two weeks. Mike and Tina are sitting across the aisle from her, doing the Asian equivalent of making out--reading manga or something, hell if Santana knows--and Rachel is two seats up, listening to something on her iPod and occasionally bursting into random bits of song. It’s enough to give a sane person hives.

Quinn does her nails, and she does Quinn’s nails, and they both realize they’re not nearly as good at it as Kurt; then, Quinn disappears into the back to do Brittany’s nails and Santana swaps seats with Mercedes, who is thumbing through an issue of _Vogue_ and drinking a Slushie, of all things.

“What? It helps relax the larynx,” Mercedes says, in a _perfect_ imitation of Rachel.

Santana chortles a bit, and then sobers up and says, “I don’t think I can do the solo.”

“Girl, are you tripping? Of course you can,” Mercedes says, raised eyebrow. “We all agreed you should have it; your voice is perfect for it, all vulnerable and shit.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean _physically_. I just don’t want to be singing _that song_.”

If there was room, she’s pretty sure Mercedes would be putting her hands on her hips and glaring at her. As it is, she just climbs onto the seat on her knees and whistles on her fingers, hard. “Yo, everyone. Lopez here is having some second thoughts about the opening number.”

Santana slumps into the seat; Rachel’s head pops out above hers like a Jack in the Box. “I would be _happy_ to step in if nerves are becoming an overwhelming concern, Santana.”

Sometimes, Santana almost thinks she admires Rachel--but that’s just too fucking crazy. She lazily sticks up a middle finger and then rolls her eyes when Rachel looks affronted.

Puck leans over the backs of their seats and says, “I knew you’d chicken out. You’re worried you’re going to sound like some flaming queer, aren’t you.”

“No,” Santana says, in a way that sounds like yes.

Mercedes scoffs. “It’s a _Beyonce_ song. It doesn’t get much more heterosexual than the lady who snagged up Jigga and turned him into an honest man.”

“Word,” Artie hollers, from somewhere in the back of the bus. If he wasn’t already crippled, Santana figures she would’ve crippled him personally by now.

“I just--whatever. I sound better on _Valerie_ ,” she finally says.

“No you don’t,” Brittany’s voice says, more clearly than all the other grumbling that comes from all other corners of the bus.

“Santana, nobody is going to make you sing anything you don’t want to,” Mr. Schue finally says, before giving her a pointed look, “but you kick ass on that song, and we all know it.”

She sighs. This is somehow worse than being temporary Captain of the Cheerios. Nobody on that team actually looked at her to do anything--she just had to show up and be a bitch, which is like _breathing_.

“I’ll think about it,” she finally says, before tugging on her earbuds and tuning out the rest of their discussion with some Liz Phair.

*

They’re up last. Santana’s spent the last two hours trying not to dry heave. She somehow lost her lucky panties, or at least didn’t bring them, and complained about it incessantly until Quinn finally slapped her in the face at 4am.

She slept for about three hours.

Vocal Adrenaline are a fucking powerhouse, as always. The new Jesse St. James, some bitch named Veronica McVowel, is basically the hottest girl Santana has ever seen. She’s about ninety percent leg, with a pretty but bitchy smile and piercingly mean blue eyes that seem to be undressing half the audience.

Quinn appears like a ghost at her shoulder and says, “I don’t want to ruin this moment of discovery for you, but you have the same look on your face Sam does whenever he’s confronted with someone who doesn’t like Star Wars.”

Santana clamps her mouth shut. Veronica McVowel does a slow-motion hand-stand _while singing_ , and even the fact that she’s singing _It’s Raining Men_ doesn’t do anything to undo the magnificence of it all.

When they trail off stage, Santana _swears_ the bitch winks at her in passing. What the hell?

*

Her voice cracks twice, on the opening notes. She glances to the side stage and sees Quinn and Britt stand there, holding hands and fucking _believing_ in her, and suddenly it’s like Fleetwood Mac in the choir room all over again.

She feels her lip start to quiver, but somehow that just manages to become part of the song--and when Rachel joins her on stage, appearing an almost deferential half inch behind her to sing the harmony, she pulls her shit together and _slaughters_ it.

Rachel has to shove her off stage when they’re done--standing ovation, of course, but that’s nothing new in Santana’s performing life--and then gives her a bone-crushing hug at the end of it.

“It’s entirely possible I won’t be MVP after that performance,” Rachel says.

Santana somehow just squeezes back without any real intent to maim. “Whatever. I don’t need a trophy to know I’m fucking amazing.”

Because of Rachel clinging to her like a fucking howler monkey for another 30 seconds, they only have about a minute to change for the next routine, and Santana is pretty sure she’s left at least three buttons on her shirt undone for all of the Justin Timberlake medley. Judging by the old pervert sitting in as head judge, however, it’s only going to get them more votes.

*

She cries hysterically. It’s not unprecedented--tanning privileges, anyone?--but still kind of surprising because duh, this is _glee_ she’s crying about.

Rachel somehow takes it like a pro, for real; somewhere in being rejected constantly that girl has built up the skin of a T-Rex and can take the world’s biggest let-down with a straight face.

Quinn’s doing that silly baby-rub thing again, until Puck puts an arm over her shoulder and then she just sort of sinks back into him. “We did good, babe,” he says, softly, and Santana gives Quinn a very pointed look before _that_ particular resolution is thrown out of the window again.

Brittany finds her when they’re all filtering out of the auditorium; she’s running behind, still stuffing her heels back into the gym bag that hasn’t contained cheerleading uniforms in months now.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” she says, and there’s something so heartbreaking about Brittany being sad and probably not really knowing why--Santana stops packing and turns to look at her. “That song you sang, about being a boy. I don’t really think of you that way.”

She hasn’t spoken to Brittany regularly enough to make sense of that quickly enough, but the look on her face seems to prod Brittany along.

“And then it’s like, if you were a boy, I would still be with Artie, who is also a boy. It would just be--you know, two boys. I don’t think that changes anything. Although I guess I could be with two boys, even though you always said that’s the wrong kind of slutty and that it would hurt. But I don’t--”

This is the stupidest, most misguided thing that’s ever happened in all their years of friendship. “Britt--don’t think, okay?” Santana finally just says.

“Okay,” Brittany says, easily enough. “I’d like to give you a hug, though. You were really good.”

It doesn’t set her nerves on fire anymore; it doesn’t even make her want to put her fist through a wall, like it has for months now. It just sort of is.

“So were you,” Santana says, and gives Brittany a final kiss on the corner of her mouth.

*

The door to the roof somehow doesn’t set the fire alarm off, even though it promises to, and she spends most of the afternoon up there. Quinn and Puck have disappeared somewhere, but fuck it, there’s only so much that the laws of friendship cover--and she just doesn’t have the energy to deal with anyone else. Last she saw the rest of the club, they were still analyzing what had gone wrong.

No fucking point in that. They’ll just have to try again next year. Try harder, be better. That’s how trophies get won and hurdles get crossed.

Santana spends the evening alone, legs dangling over a ledge, for once not wondering if Brittany’s post-game celebrations with Artie are anything like the ones they used to have together. She’s done thinking about that now, for good.

“Is this a self-pity party or are you willing to share this space?” someone says behind her.

That bitch really is ridiculously good looking, Santana thinks, before shrugging. “Roof’s big enough for you, me, and your ego, last I checked.”

Veronica McVowel laughs softly. “It’s just a performance, McKinley.”

“Please. I’ve met Jesse St. James. It’s not just _anything_ with you weirdos.”

Massive roof, but of course she goes and sits down not even an inch away from Santana. It’s like a hair is separating them.

“I’m not Jesse. In fact, I’m only _in_ show choir because I tore my Achilles in gymnastics last year and can’t compete anymore.”

“I used to cheer,” Santana volunteers, before shooting Veronica a dark look. “And don’t even think about joking about how cheerleading is just gymnastics for spastics. It’s its own game, yeah?”

Veronica doesn’t say anything for a long time. It’s weird, sharing space with a stranger like this, but not the worst thing on a night where every other person she knows seems to just want to cry for fucking ages.

“You were very good,” Veronica finally says. “Not the greatest voice, you’re not as good as that annoying short girl with the baby-bangs, but you’re very … emotional.”

“Thanks,” Santana says, not really meaning it.

“Good muscle tone, also,” Veronica continues. “Great complexion.”

Santana turns and stares at her. “Are you trying to get on this?”

Veronica stares back without blinking. “Is there anyone _else_ on this roof I could be talking to?”

Santana bristles. “Look, just because I sang what I know is a really fucked up Beyonce song doesn’t mean that--”

“Hey,” Veronica says, holding up her hands in apology. “Open invitation. It’s not like I can’t just go back downstairs and find someone else to hook up with. It’s _Nationals_.”

Santana hadn’t really thought about that aspect of being in New York, mostly unsupervised, but of _course_ this is going to be just like cheer camp--at least the way she and Britt always did cheer camp. (Quinn’s experience: _probably_ not the same.)

“Whatever,” she says, to Veronica, because it’s not like she can say ‘oh, nevermind, I take it back, then’ without sounding like a giant lesbian.

Which--well. She’s still not sure she is.

“First time?” Veronica asks, with a sly expression on her face.

Is she some sort of goddamned mind-reader? Santana feels her face flush and then ridiculously says something like, “Of course not.”

“Really? I thought New Directions didn’t beat us at Regionals last year,” Veronica says.

 _Bitch_ , Santana thinks, but she’s not going to be out-fierced by some prom queen from the ‘burbs. “Look--are we going to do this, or what?”

“Up to you, kitten,” Veronica says, easily enough.

Santana takes a deep breath, like she’s going fucking snorkling or something, and then decides, to hell with it. It’s not like anyone will ever need to know.

*

She heads off to find Quinn a good twenty minutes later, who is _of course_ just back in their shared hotel room.

“We’re in New York, Quinn. Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here and go explore,” she says, tossing Quinn her jacket from the door handle and raising her eyebrows.

Quinn takes one look at her face and then makes a face of her own. “Oh, _please_ tell me you’re not back to hooking up with Brittany in broom closets.”

Santana folds her arms across her chest and leans back against the door. “I don’t know, Q - did you pucker up to Puckerman tonight or was that vibe just in my head?”

“I know how to keep my legs together, thanks,” Quinn says, primly, shrugging into her jacket. “But seriously, what is wrong with your lips? You look like you made out with a Slushie, they’re that red.”

Santana covers her mouth with one hand, mumbles, “Wasn’t Britt”, and then gives Quinn her best death stare.

Quinn just looks amused. “Vocal Adrenaline’s lip gloss budget alone must outweigh our entire budget by like, a grand.”

Santana just glares at her until Quinn cuffs her in the head and says, “You’ll tell me about it later, when you’re drunk enough to start bragging about hooking up with some senior from a rival school.”

*

They go out to karaoke.

They kick _ass_. Duh. Some Asian guys in the next booth over sneak them some drinks and when Quinn loses about a quarter inch off that pole that’s always up her ass, they get even _better_. There’s dancing as well as singing; some of it so filthy that Santana has to remind herself that she’s with the head of the Celibacy Club.

Suddenly, Puck’s thing for Quinn makes _so_ much more sense.

By three a.m., they’re in some sort of sing-off with the American-Korean answer to Justin Bieber. They win, of course, because they’re not even close to being amateurs. Who cares about Nationals; as Quinn puts it, “ _That’s_ high school; this is the real world, and look who’s winning.”

Quinn wears the stupid ass medal they get for beating Korean Bieber around her neck on the way back. Outside of the hotel, they run into the entire Vocal Adrenaline team getting onto a bus; Santana pulls the collar on her jacket up until her lips are hidden and just nods curtly at Veronica McVowel.

Quinn laughs hysterically on the elevator up; Santana almost strangles her with the medal.

*

Quinn is usually mean-girl drunk, at least to everyone else they know, but tonight ends up being oddly affectionate; they end up sort of snuggled together on just one bed and like, Santana has to keep reminding herself that this is _Quinn_ and not _Brittany_ because there’s some weird similarities.

Of course, those end when Quinn starts talking about how she screwed Finn up completely and it’s no wonder that things are so awkward and bad with them now, and she didn’t even mean to hurt him, it was just church and her parents and the baby and blah blah blah--Brittany couldn’t string that many words together if someone made her eat the fucking dictionary.

“It wasn’t even good, you know” is the point at which Santana starts paying attention to the conversation again.

“What?” she asks. She doesn’t even know why she’s stroking Quinn’s hair, it’s just sort of _there_ and soft. Quinn’s like a Barbie with brains. Santana doesn’t know why they’ve never actually been friends prior to this year. There’s so many things that are great about Barbies, and brains.

“The sex,” Quinn sort of mumbles into her chest.

“What, with Puck?” Santana says, pulling away enough to look at Quinn’s face.

“No, with your _mom_ ,” Quinn counters, rolling her eyes--which is good, because for a second there it felt like Quinn was going to start crying and Santana just does _not_ do weepy. “Of course with Puck, who else.”

Santana tries to force a sensible comment out. Her mind is _so_ cloudy. That horrible night at Berry’s aside, she’s never had this much to drink.. “Puckerman’s all right at it, actually.”

“Really,” Quinn says, sounding sour. “I--it was over before I even started getting into it. I mean, I guess part of that was because I was so drunk--”

“No you weren’t,” Santana says, out loud. Yay, free drinks. She’s been wanting to burst _that_ bubble for at least six months now.

Quinn’s mouth sets halfway, and then she sighs. “No, I wasn’t.”

“I taught him basically everything he knows,” Santana says, after a moment. “So if you’re calling Puck a bad lay, you’re _actually_ saying that …”

“I really, really am not,” Quinn counters.

Santana flicks her in the temple. The room is getting super hot, like--she’d take off some clothes, or something, but Quinn does not equal Brittany and maybe she shouldn’t.. “Shut up. And, you know what, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Finnacle when I had the dubious privilege of riding that bicycle for the first time--it takes about twenty times until you really get anything out of it.”

Quinn rolls over onto her back and looks up with a disgusted look on her face. “If it’s that bad the first time, why would you even try _again_?”

Santana shrugs. Quinn’s face is starting to blur a bit--okay, no, maybe it’s starting to blur a lot. “It’s just _sex_ , Quinn.”

“Was it always that bad with Brittany?”

“Well, no,” Santana says, and then her hand forgets to keep moving in Quinn’s hair and suddenly the room starts spinning--and oh. Not that she wants to be having realizations anyway, but it’s probably better to have them when she’s not pinned in place by a whiny drunk Quinn and the room just won’t stop tilting, like, what the fuck--.

“God, you’re actually gay,” Quinn says, sounding amazed. Like she’s just found Jesus, almost.

Santana doesn’t quite manage to get out a “fuck you” before throwing up.

*

The bus ride back is a show of horrors. Quinn passes out immediately, which is the better way to deal with a hangover, but Santana can’t sleep with so many people talking around her and so she’s stuck there with sunglasses on, praying to Quinn’s tiny baby Jesus that her skull won’t actually cave in before they get back to Lima.

Rachel sits next to her when they are about half way back. “Have you checked your Facebook messages recently?”

“No, ugh,” Santana groans. “Stop yelling. And why?”

She really hasn’t checked them in months; doesn’t need to in order to know that half are from Britt, the other half from guys she hooked up with and really doesn’t want to talk to again.

“Blaine and Kurt have invited us to come over for a post-celebratory dinner. I suppose it will now become something more like a consolation dinner, but all the greats have to learn how to handle defeat with dignity. It can only be good practice, for us.”

“Gnomio, if you don’t start speaking in plain English, I am going to cram my sunglasses down your throat,” Santana growls. “What. do. you. want?”

“Dinner. You and me, at Kurt’s. He said it’s white tie, but I’m sure he would be amenable to your normal outfits. You dress surprisingly little like a stripper, given what words come out of your mouth most of the time,” Rachel says, earnestly.

It’s clearly meant to be a compliment. “Berry--”

“It’s okay, Santana. I can see you are taking the loss particularly harshly. I don’t begrudge anyone feelings of despair; they can be a powerful source of inspiration.”

Quinn’s body starts shaking next to her--bitch is _clearly_ awake and enjoying every minute of her suffering--and Santana just lowers her glasses long enough to glare at Rachel. “Yes. I’m in pain. Leave me to it, before I share it with you.”

Rachel’s smile makes her want to throw up all over again, but as usual, she does what she’s told and heads back to the front of the bus, probably to torment Mr. Schue (who looks like he went on a bender that outsizes theirs by some distance--nice sunglasses, Senor Schuester) with a setlist for next year’s Sectionals. Crazy ass dwarf.

“A double date. How wonderful,” Quinn says, sweetly.

“Your hair still smells like my barf,” Santana volleys back, equally sweetly.

How it is they’re not still ruling the school together is a _total_ fucking mystery.

*

“There’s something different about you,” Blaine says, peering at her carefully.

They’re back at the Lima Bean, where Santana is making a concerted effort to explain _without_ being crude why this dinner plan they have is most definitely _not a double date_ and that if there’s even so much as a hint of her being seated next to Rachel for the entire evening, she is going to set Kurt’s Cher doll collection on fire.

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees, tapping his fingers against his cheek. “You seem--more relaxed, somehow.”

“I’ve been drinking a lot,” Santana says.

Blaine grins. “You do realize Quinn tells us about everything that happens to you, right?”

God. After years of having basically _no_ parents, she suddenly has three--one more retarded and less capable than the next. “So--then you know.”

“How was it?” Kurt asks, taking a very delicate sip of his chai tea. “I mean-- _emotionally_.”

Santana leans back in her chair and shrugs. “It wasn’t emotional. We were like, trying not to fall of the roof of a hotel. She had that superweird Very Cherry lipgloss that all of Vocal Adrenaline use and I looked like a clown for the next six hours.”

“Okay, so--was it better than kissing boys, or not?” Blaine asks.

He’s the only one of her friends other than Mercedes who knows how to ask normal questions, which is just sad. Glee club really is kryptonite to normal people. (Ugh, she hates that she knows what kryptonite is--thanks a lot, Trouty Mouth.)

She makes a half-assed effort to process and then just sighs. “Britt was different because she was my best friend. Not because she was a girl, or whatever.”

“Santana Lopez, talking about feelings,” Kurt says, before dramatically fanning himself. “Am I dreaming? Are we all dead? Is that you, Pavarotti?”

She kicks him under the table, hard. He won’t mind if she hits anything delicate; God knows he’s hoping to achieve eunuch range anyway. “Whatever, Hummel. All I’m saying is that kissing some chick I’ll never see again isn’t like--that thing that Britt and I had.”

“You seem better, though. Seriously. Like you’re not so angry anymore,” Blaine says. Kurt sort of leans into him, like he’s being praised for saying _nice things_ , and some part of Santana isn’t even skeeved out by them.

… maybe she needs to lay off the booze for a while.

“Yeah. I guess maybe I’m not,” she says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, massive, massive liberties here taken with the US school year. It works for the story, though. I think. Gracias to B for pointing out what some of the earlier issues with this were.

3.

So, that dinner thing happens.

There’s like five reasons for it - none of them have anything to do with wanting to suck face with Rachel, obviously. It’s more like, prom is getting close and Santana didn’t think anything would be more annoying than pregnancy hormonal Quinn but somehow tiara Gollum Quinn is taking the cake. When she wants to go fucking dress shopping for like the _sixth day in a row_ , Santana texts Kurt all _SOS—crazy Barbie wants to go shopping again, let’s do that dinner thing_.

None of them have lives, so it’s not like it’s short notice or anything.

Quinn takes a three minute break from freaking out about Finn wanting to wear a bow tie or something to call and ask what Santana’s going to wear, which is just _asking_ for an immediate hang-up; but then Santana ends up stupidly scanning her closet anyway, possibly looking for the least sexy outfit she owns. (Better not give Berry the wrong idea, right?)

(Though, it’s not actually physically possible for her _not_ to be sexy, so whatever.)

She settles on some black jeans and a black turtleneck which is like, hands down, the most covered she’s been in the entire year; Kurt takes one look at her on the porch and says, “Hello Santana. … I didn’t realize I’d told you to dress like a grave robber, but I suppose you can come on in anyway.”

She throws her scarf at him and steps around him into the house. Finn’s in the kitchen, eating Cheerios straight from the box--insert your own joke about Quinn here, Santana smirks--and looking equal parts skeptical and curious about having Santana Lopez back in his house.

“I’m not here for you, Manboobs,” she says, shortly.

Kurt snorts softly and puts a hand at her lower back. “Rachel’s already here and the entrees are almost done, so if you’ll just go downstairs--”

She knows the way. Almost bursts out laughing when she sees Blaine sitting as far as humanly possible away from Rachel, who is about as sexually threatening as a thumb-sucking three year old. “Sup,” she says to Blaine, who looks incredibly relieved to see her.

“Hi, Santana,” Rachel says. Santana takes a better look at what Rachel’s wearing and--goddamn, they’re almost matching. Except that Rachel’s turtle-neck has a knitted moose on it. It’s almost like a tits-first commentary on Rachel’s love-life; well, that, and _heinous_ , obviously.

She knows she’s staring when Rachel says, “I know--insert your requisite joke about my choice of evening wear here. Honestly, I’m ready for it.”

And then she straightens, like some sort of dumb ass seal waiting to balance a ball on its nose.

“I don’t know. By your standards, you look all right, I guess,” Santana says, graciously. “I mean--not that you look good, but whatever.”

Blaine clears his throat. “Kurt thought it would be good if we played Charades while he’s cooking. You know, given the crowd...”

“The crowd of overly dramatic turds?” Santana asks; she sits down next to Rachel and crosses her arms. “I fucking _hate_ Charades, and in case any of your nerds hadn’t figured this much out yet: we’re not _ten_.”

“According to Puck, Santana’s favorite game is _I’ve Never_ ,” Rachel supplies, somewhat helpfully. “Although rumor has it that she never plays for longer than about two minutes, because--”

“Doesn’t Kurt have a Wii or something? Guitar Hero? Rock Band?” Santana interjects.

“No,” Blaine says, with a laugh. “But I think Finn might.”

*

Finn looks a little shell-shocked at the invasion into his bedroom, but then shrugs and says that he’s fine for them to use his console. The dinner plates are moved into the bedroom while Finn orders a pizza and devours it like some sort of human velociraptor—Santana really has never seen anything less attractive, and just wants to smack Quinn in the head some more—and then, thank _fuck_ they are playing Rock Band, because there is some seriously awkward silence going on.

Rachel is trying not to stare at Finn. Finn _isn’t_ trying not to stare at Rachel. Kurt and Blaine are sort of watching that shit like it’s a tennis match; Santana just tries to glare at all of them simultaneously.

The game’s all right, though. She demolishes Finn’s high score on guitar and ends up right below Puck on the scoreboard. Then again, Finn somehow knows how to use his flappy batwing arms to drum just fine. It’s not much of a competition and so they change the game settings to vocals only for a while. (Rachel basically hasn’t surrendered the microphone all night, but when Santana just moves into her space and holds a hand, Rachel turns out to be smarter than she looks.)

“So, like. I didn’t know all of you were friends,” Finn finally says, when they’re on their third round of trying to set up a tournament on vocals only.

“We’re not,” Santana says, adding a “ _What_ ” when they all stare at her.

“This is kind of the unofficial LGBT school meeting,” Kurt says, before handing Blake the cheese tray he’s prepared for dessert. (It’s tasty, on top of being _really_ gay.)

“The what?” Finn goes.

“You know, sort of like a Gay Straight Alliance. Emphasis not on the straight,” Blaine explains.

Finn looks like he’s having a small stroke when he next looks at Rachel. _And_ Santana. “Um.”

Rachel just continues ignoring him, but Finn isn’t having that. He moves next to her and says, softly but totally audibly, “Is this because--of me and Quinn?”

What a dickhead. Why not just punch her in the gut, or something. The flinch on Rachel’s face is enough to make Santana feel like she just swallowed a hairball. If Finn had any brains at all—well. Not enough time and space to complete that sentence.

“Rachel,” he continues. “You can’t become gay just because I love someone else.”

“Woo, boy,” Kurt says, giving Santana a slightly desperate look. “Can we go back to the game, please? Because as much as I’m a fan of drama, I prefer it on my _television_.”

Finn glances at him, clearly annoyed, but then he just puts a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Look, I know that you’re upset, but Quinn....”

“Yes. Quinn,” Rachel says, a little brittle. She brushes Finn’s arm off; it’s simultaneous with a swipe past her own eyes, but when she turns to look at him, there’s no sign that there were any tears. “Of course you're with Quinn. She’s everything you ever wanted. Blonde; a cheerleader; _popular_...”

Finn looks annoyed. “This isn’t about that. We would still be together if you hadn’t hooked up with Puck.”

There’s a little bit of fire when Rachel bites back, “Yes, _I know_. You like to remind me at every opportunity that you’re not the one who messed up, Finn. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to pin a scarlet letter to my chest at this rate.”

Points to Berry, Santana thinks; she settles back next to Blaine, who wordlessly gives her a plate full of cheese and crackers.

“I’m not even sure what that means, but if you really think that anything is going to change by you becoming gay or whatever....”

Rachel makes a strangled noise before storming out of the room. Finn stares at all three of them and then goes after her.

“Well,” Blaine finally says, awkwardly.

“Kiss any more girls lately?” Kurt asks, blithely.

Santana rolls her eyes at both of them and heads out after Finn, who needs some serious reminding of who he is and isn't dating right now.

*

He’s like, lurking outside of his own bathroom, waiting for Rachel to come out. It’s creepy.

“Oy,” Santana says, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “Here’s some free advice. When your ex-girlfriend exits left to a bathroom, it’s not because she wants your dumb ass to stalk her there.”

Finn glares at her. It’s that same glare she got when that whole shit about his virginity came out. Yeah, he _really_ loves Quinn, and doesn’t care about Rachel at all. Eyeroll

“She’s a _friend_ who’s upset,” he says.

“Yeah, she’s a friend. But she’s not _your_ friend, you giant stooge.”

Finn stares at her mutely, before knocking on the bathroom door again.

Santana rolls her eyes and steps in front of him, blocking access to the door. “ _Seriously_.”

“I’m with Quinn,” he says in response, still staring at the bathroom. “There’s nothing going on with me and Rachel, I just want to make sure she’s okay. Quinn and I are happy together.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you’re _so_ good at making Quinn happy.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Finn demands.

“Let me paint you a picture, Finnocence. It’s about this girl who really just needs her boyfriend to not be a dick for five minutes, but he can’t even manage that; and then some total skeeze comes by and says _what’s up, you don’t have cankles_ and she is so desperate to actually feel like she’s a person that she just gives it up to him. Wham, bam, chastity gone. Any of this sound familiar?”

Finn’s little bubble-head jaw tightens; she just cannot believe she ever fucked this guy, honestly. He probably wants to kick her ass but has too many morals to do it. That’s just lame; like she couldn’t take him either way.

“So, fast forward one year, like, have you seen Quinn lately? She’s totally obsessed with the Osh Kosh catalogue and seriously, she cries every fucking time she tastes watermelon wine coolers...”

“So what, Quinn getting pregnant is my fault now?” Finn cuts her off, sharply. “I guess it’s also my fault that she lied about who the dad was for months and would’ve never told me at all, right?”

Bingo, Santana thinks. “Yeah. You sound like you’re _really_ over that.”

Finn flushes angrily. “You don’t _get_ over something like that.”

“No _shit,_ Hudson. Your _girlfriend_ figured that out ages ago. She’s just counting the days until you go running back to the girl who screwed you over less.”

Finn swallows tightly but doesn’t say anything.

At this point, it’s like executing a fatality on a puppy, but she doesn’t give a shit. Finn is just such a dick. He has it coming. “And you know what? It’s bad enough that Quinn’s such a blubbering mess over your useless ass—but she’s not the only one whose life you’re fucking up.”

Finn stares at her for a long moment; then his mouth sets. “I can’t help it that Rachel’s not over me. I’m over her; I ended it. And I’m _with Quinn_ now.”

“Really? Is that why you’ve been staring at Rachel’s legs all night? Good luck trying to make sense of that shit to your girlfriend—who is out buying dresses, by the way. Prom is totally going to be one of the most memorable nights of her life,” Santana spits out.

She doesn’t even notice the bathroom door has opened until Finn’s hangdog expression focuses somewhere behind her.

“Santana—Finn’s right. He made a choice, and it’s not his fault that...,” Rachel says. Her voice sounds all choked; it’s really uncomfortable.

“Yeah, it’s not,” Finn says, his giant baby head all flushed red with anger, or frustration, or maybe the inability to speak English. “I don’t even know why you’re here. Kurt hates you. _I_ hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Lurch,” Santana says, staring him down.

Finn stares at them both for another moment and then says, “I’m going to call Quinn.”

He leaves them in the hallway. Santana turns to look at Rachel, who just looks like someone fucking told her that _Wicked_ didn’t win a Tony or something.

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough gay bonding for one evening.”

*

Rachel, of course, is mannered enough to go and thank Kurt for dinner, which was all right--not as good as BreadstiX and way too many calories, but it tasted pretty okay.

She apparently walked over to Kurt’s, and Santana’s not so big a bitch that she’s just like _sorry you had the worst night ever, see ya!_ , so she gives Rachel a ride home.

“I’m not waiting for him anymore, you know,” Rachel says, when they’re idling in front of her house. She’s playing with the hem of her sweater, which--whatever, it’s not convincing, but at least Rachel is _trying_ to get over him. “I don’t know how many more ways I can make it clear to him that I’m sorry, and he just doesn’t care.”

“He cares; he’s just dumber than a box of broken shingles,” Santana says. “And Quinn’s known him longer; she manipulates him better.”

“Does she even want him?” Rachel asks, quietly, after a long moment of silence.

Santana sighs. “I think in her own fucked up way, she does. But it’s kind of like Groundhog Day, you know--”

“Yeah,” Rachel cuts her off. She moves to open the car door and then says, “Well, thank you. For trying to… reason with him.”

“I didn’t...” Santana says, but then glances at Rachel and just mutters, “He had it coming.”

One of Rachel’s gay dads is in the hallway when she unlocks and heads inside, and the door closes on them hugging. (Santana briefly wonders where her own parents are tonight, and then heads to Quinn’s.)

*

Quinn looks devastated. Like, _I fucked Puck and now I’m preggo_ levels of devastated. So, like, there’s some immediate concern and annoyance at Finn, who must’ve just improved on his own personal best of being a giant fucking heifer about everything.

“He broke up with me,” Quinn says, like she’s on autopilot.

“Shit,” Santana says. She waits for the inevitable follow-up, which is something like, _because you opened your gigantic mouth_ , but instead Quinn just keeps looking straight ahead, until she takes a shaky breath.

“I bought a dress tonight. The green one, you know. You said I looked like Tinkerbell on a 1980s acid trip, but in a good way,” Quinn says, and then points at the wall, where there’s a massive garment bag hanging down. “I don’t know if it’s returnable.”

Santana sits down next to Quinn, mattress dipping them closer together, and slings an arm around her shoulder. “It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Of course it does,” Quinn says, bitterly, with suspiciously shiny eyes; Santana still doesn’t do fucking weepy, but it’s better than that traumatized half-dead thing that Quinn does sometimes. _That_ scares the shit out of her. “I’m not going to prom. Not by myself.”

“Duh, who said anything about you going by yourself. Quinn, we have like--two weeks. We’ll find someone.” It actually physically hurts her to be this level of supportive, so it’s probably for the best that Quinn turns on her with some quality old-Quinn rage.

“I’ve dreamt about this day since I was _five years old_ , Santana. The only day of my life that’s more important than this is my wedding day, because God knows I’ve already given up on the birth of my first child as being one of the biggest moments in my life. So, I know you think I’m crazy, and this is all pointless, but this is a huge deal to _me_ , and I’m not going with some _stranger_.”

“Okay, so, we’ll talk to Sam Evans,” Santana says, reasonably. “He’s not seeing anyone, he’s on the team, you look very all-American together, which is bound to get you some votes with the racist crowd...”

Quinn tips her head back and groans out, “God. I don’t want to go to prom with _Sam Evans_. I broke up with him for a reason.”

“Yeah, you were worried you’d disappear in the infernal cave that is his mouth,” Santana says. “Seriously, though. He’s not like, horrible or anything.”

Quinn’s shaking and kind of angry. “I don’t want _not horrible_. I want--” The words catch in her throat, and like--Santana doesn’t know if she’s actually seen Quinn cry, ever. But then there are a lot of tears; angry tears more than anything else.

Santana figures it’s time for some tough love. “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen. And you’re better than that douchetard anyway. Like, seriously, he did you a favor; you’re not going to have to look at pictures ten years from now and realize you went to prom with Frankenstein’s baby.”

The tears slow down, and then Quinn’s spine pulls a Cheerio—ram-rodding out of nowhere. Thatta girl.

Santana thinks about how Rachel Berry somehow has more self-esteem than either of them combined, and how incredibly fucking sad is that? They’re like the two hottest girls in school. They don’t _need_ boys.

“He’ll _win_ if you just give up and that’s just _not_ acceptable,” she presses on, forcing Quinn to look at her. “So fuck him. You’re going to win that fucking tiara, Q, and you know what? You’ll win with the hottest person at McKinley High at your side.”

“I’m not going with _Puck,”_ Quinn says, making a face before wiping at her eyes.

“I didn’t _mean_ Puck, but thanks a lot, you bitch,” Santana says, with an eye-roll.

Quinn buys a clue, it seems, and then just stares at her.

Santana doesn’t take it back, though, because that would be even lamer than having said it at all. What is she, Finn? _No, just kidding, I don’t actually like making decisions_.

“You’re saying we should go together,” Quinn says.

Santana shrugs and stares back.

“I’m not … really sure how to explain that to my Mom,” Quinn finally says, quietly. “Or to church. Or to--our friends, I guess.”

Santana roll her eyes. “Yeah, because _I’m going to prom with my BFF_ is so much weirder than _oh hey, I’m pregnant_.”

It’s not much, but Quinn’s lip stops trembling for just about five seconds--which is when Santana knows she’s pretty much won this battle. It’s just a question of laying out a strategy that Quinn will deem tolerable.

*

“Sure,” Blaine says, at the same time that Kurt says, “Absolutely not.”

They look at each other.

“I’m out and I’m proud. And I don’t care what that knucklehead Dave Karofsky thinks about it. I refuse to hide who I am,” Kurt says, jutting his chin up.

“Look, Peter Pan, I don’t care what you do at the dance. We just need someone to go and talk to Mrs. Fabray about how Quinn definitely isn’t going to get knocked up again, which really shouldn’t be a stretch for you gaymos.” Santana looks at Kurt and then at Blaine again. “And the other one of you will get the privilege of posing for some lame ass picture with me, so that I can email my parents about the big dance, har-de-har.”

She didn’t mean for that to come out sounding so sad, but they both look at her with these silly little commiserating expressions and then Blaine says, “I’ve been told I come across as, uh—less gay. So maybe I’ll be better in person.”

“C’mon, Porcelain. Don’t be a waste-gash,” Santana pushes, one last time. “What has Quinn ever done to you? Like, in the last month anyway?”

Kurt sighs and says, “Fine. For Quinn, then--but we’re _all_ coordinating our outfits.”

*

There’s something kind of awesome about having the power to fix everything that Finn has fucked up this year, so while she’s on a roll, she might as well go for the home straight.

She waits for Sam outside of the boy’s locker room and pulls him aside.

“Ow. Oh, it’s you,” he says, and then cowers away from her. “You’re not going to start telling me I’m a dork or that I should volunteer as a part-time plunger or anything again, are you?”

“No,” Santana says, pushing him away a little, until they’re a normal distance apart. “Thanks, but been there done that.”

“Right. So--” Sam says. She’s got to hand it to him, he’d make a really good bitchy eleven year old girl.

“Here’s the deal. You’re single. Rachel Berry’s single. Finn Hudson’s looking to get back on that train, and I’m looking to make sure that Rachel Berry doesn’t crack completely because let’s face it, unless she’s pleasantly dramatic we’re never going to win a trophy, and then we’ll just have been twelve totally lame losers who voluntarily did show choir in high school.”

Sam looks a little confused, a lot skeptical, and a little amused. “So, what—I should date Rachel?”

“I don’t care what you do with your private life, Samwise,” she says, rolling her eyes when he looks a little fucking pleased about that reference. (Whatever. Legolas is hot--she’s not like a nerd or anything.) “What I care about is Rachel Berry going to prom.”

“But I already asked—”

“No, you didn’t,” Santana says, and gives him a very pointed look. “Think about your college applications, Evans. And your testicles.”

His eyes narrow at her after a moment. “No mouth jokes for two months.”

“One month,” she negotiates. At his look, “Christ, _Sam,_ I’m only human.”

“Deal,” he simply says, striding off.

*

Two days later, she sees him next to Rachel’s locker with a little white box. He says a few things, and Rachel says a few things, and then just stands there clutching a corsage to her chest.

Santana wonders if she should start charging for her new-found ability to make dreams come true.

Then again, maybe there’s enough payment in the fact that Finn looks like he’s involuntarily laying an egg for three days after it gets out that Sam asks Rachel. (His pinched, nasal expression finally cheers Quinn up enough to go over complementary colors with Kurt.)

*

“I’m not wearing pink. End of, assholes,” she says, and hangs up.

Kurt texts five minutes later. _American Rose is not PINK, you colorblind slag._

*

It all goes completely to plan, until Brittany shows up at her house and says, “I don’t really know how to do my hair for prom.”

It might be a lie; Britt’s adept with her hands, just not her brain—but Santana’s in a giving mood now that she’s discovered she’s a fucking real life Santa, and she lets Brittany in and goes through three different options with her.

Brittany stares at the mirror for a long time and then glances up towards her, still just through the mirror, but it feels closer than they’ve been in forever. “You know what you said about Artie, and dancing.”

Santana just raises an eyebrow. Hell if she’s going to apologize for that.

“I love him, but I don’t want to spend the entire evening on my knees.”

Santana bites down on her cheek hard to not immediately make some sort of awful joke about how she’s certainly never minded being on her knees before now, and then just feels her eyes water when Brittany sighs sadly and says, “You would’ve danced with me.”

“You can dance with other people, you know,” Santana says. Dryly. Like, her mouth is like a cave with the way Brittany’s looking at her.

“Yeah, but, I’ve only ever wanted to dance with you,” is the response, and Christ if this isn’t happening at the worst possible time. Quinn’s some sort of pre-menstrual Satan right now; Kurt’s perfecting the gay male equivalent of that, and worst of all, Rachel won’t stop singing about her feelings in glee—the bitch is good, but it’s _so_ time for a new theme.

And then there’s the fact that she hasn’t had sex with anyone in—God, she won’t even say it out loud. It’s that sad.

“Britt, it’s just too fucked up,” she says, brusquely.

Brittany nods like she understands, but she doesn’t, of course.

It’s just a fucking dance. She’s just asking for a _dance_ , which like—it shouldn’t be a big deal. Santana forces herself to stop thinking and skims through her iPod quickly, until she reaches one of those Melissa Etheridge songs that Britt wanted to sing with her.

“Oh. I like this song,” Brittany says, and gets up; and it’s like, Santana hasn’t been near anyone this tall in ages. The last two people to be in her space were Quinn and Kurt with pin cushions, and Britt towers over both of them. She feels like she’s suffocating.

“This doesn’t mean anything, okay?” she stumbles out, when Brittany reaches for her.

“Yeah, it’s like--if there’s nobody to look at the tree, is it still there—or not,” Britt says, which—what?

Then there are arms around her back, and Santana stops trying to interpret altogether.

The song lasts about four minutes, but it feels a lot longer than that, because Brittany’s tall and warm and like, _there_. It has been so long; God, she’s been having that shrub dream again. And like, the other day, Puckerman whistled at Rachel’s legs in a skirt and Santana found herself _looking_ , so maybe this is more than just a mistake. Maybe this is something she really just needs, just this once.

It turns out to be something she can have. Brittany says _thanks_ at the end; Santana says _no problem,_ like it actually isn’t the start of a massive problem, and then they totally do it on her bedroom floor. It’s slow, and soft, and like, super nice—but she only feels that way because it’s been a long time since she’s gotten laid.

It’s not because she _cares_.

*

“You’re in a good mood,” Quinn snipes, the next day.

“I’m just not on the rag, unlike everyone else I fucking know,” Santana says.

Quinn gives her a look, but leaves it there.

*

Brittany: still flexible, still willing, apparently not all that concerned about cheating (and if Santana never has to talk about taps and faucets and handles again, just to get a point across, it’s still too soon).

They gravitate towards the girls’ locker room almost automatically, and like, who is going to ever catch them there? It’s basically unused now that volleyball season is over.

“It’s nice to not be on top,” Brittany half-moans, the third time, and Santana just covers her mouth, tells her to be quiet because the boys’ locker room is _right there_ and it’s a secret, it’s always a secret.

“We’re not like, together,” she tells Britt after. “This isn’t about feelings.”

“I know,” Brittany says, and tangles their hands together briefly.

It’s not about feelings, and so Santana jerks her hands away and heads off to find Puck.

*

Mercedes asks questions.

Santana figures she got nominated by the group because Quinn’s too busy planning her super sweet prom or whatever, but Mercedes does _not_ look happy about being there. In fact, she looks shit-scared to be bringing something up at all.

“You aren’t exactly... discreet,” Mercedes says, tentatively. “And, like, we already talked to Britt. She says she’s happy with Artie, and that you’re just friends and it’s not about feelings.”

“That sounds about right,” Santana says.

Mercedes gives her a serious look. “It’s not about feelings for _her_. What about you, though? I mean, we all heard that song—”

Santana has to fight to not start pummeling her. “Look, this might be impossible for any of you virgins to understand, but when you’ve had as much sex as I’ve had, it really doesn’t _mean_ anything.”

“Right,” Mercedes says. She doesn’t sound convinced.

“We’re just fucking,” Santana says, exasperated; she slams her locker shut with a “God”, but then it all goes fucking haywire because Britt’s making out with Artie at the end of the hallway, and—

She stalks off in the other direction. _Whatever_.

*

Here’s the deal, though.

She’s going to prom with like, five people, and Brittany is going with Hot Wheels (which is too nice a nickname, but she’s over it and trying some maturity for a change, whatever) and this is just--it’s not different than doing Puck.

It’s really no different, and she can _have_ this.

*

Rachel seems to figure out what’s going on all on her own, and starts up a super-awkward conversation about it three days before prom.

“It’s your voice. It sounds more... satisfied,” she says; to her credit, it’s with a wince. “I know this is none of my business, but--”

“But--you have a secret desire for someone to rebuild that tribute to Barbra Streisand on your face?” Santana snaps.

It’s classic old menace, but of course it doesn’t work on anyone anymore now that they all hang out all the time. Yes, even Rachel--whatever, she’s not been so bad ever since that really messed up dinner at the Hummel house.

“Santana...” Rachel just says. “You did me this favor once, so I will return it now. You can’t be with someone who doesn’t know what they want; people are just going to get hurt, and I don’t want you to be one of those people.”

Santana bristles. “What the fuck? Like, just because I hate _Finn_ doesn’t mean that we’re _friends_ , Rachel.”

Rachel looks taken aback _and_ hurt, but she doesn’t say anything else; just picks up her bag and leaves the choir room.

Santana doesn’t feel _bad_ , exactly, but—

*

“Artie and I are moving to Boston, after high school,” Brittany says, that night.

They’re watching Sweet Valley High reruns together and Santana’s hand just freezes in Britt’s hair, like _physically cannot move_.

“Why are you telling me this,” she finally says.

Brittany smiles at her; it’s her prettiest smile, the one Santana always thought nobody else got to see. “Duh. You’re my best friend.”

*

They were just hooking up; absolutely no feelings involved.

So ending it isn’t about like, feelings either. She does it by text message to make that _really_ clear.

Brittany just sends back an ‘ok’.

Well, of course it’s fucking okay. Everything’s _fine_.

*

She doesn’t realize she’s eaten half a tub of ice cream until Quinn takes it away and says, “Not to tar you with my brush, but I know what eating my weight in feelings looks like better than most people do, and--”

“Give it back--”

Quinn holds the ice-cream hostage for another long second, before finally just sighing. “How did you _think_ it would work, San?”

“I didn’t,” she says, and finishes the rest of the ice-cream; fuck fitting into her prom dress. Fuck _prom_.

*

Quinn makes her go, of course; says that if the ex-pregnant former pageant talent turned part-time fake lesbian doesn’t have an excuse to not go to prom, neither does Santana. (There’s not really any way to counter that argument; the highlight of it was Quinn’s slight flush on ‘lesbian’.)

Santana lets Quinn talk her into coming along, but demands to get to see Blaine talk to Quinn’s mom--and so she and Kurt, looking dapper and about three percent heterosexual in a lovely white-on-gray pin-stripe, end up standing in the Fabray lounge while Blaine charms a woman who might actually have spawned from Satan’s asshole, in Santana’s opinion.

Dalton somehow becomes a Christian school, Blaine somehow becomes an altar boy, and very respectfully stands next to Quinn without touching her--not hard, given that they’ve met like four times in their lives. Quinn looks--ugh, Santana doesn’t want to say it, because there is still a bit of competition there and it chafes, but she’s nothing if not honest, and if Quinn doesn’t take home an overvalued plastic crown tonight, there is basically no God.

Not that she’s a slouch in her own dress--not green, which goes with her complexion in the same way that supportive goes with Sue Sylvester’s cheer regime, but an incredibly slutty shade of red that somehow is mirrored in Kurt’s scarf.

Nobody seems to have figured out that when they mix and match at the actual dance, they’re going to look like Rachel Berry’s idea of Christmas. Way too late to do something about it now, though.

Kurt’s impatient and Blaine’s polite and Quinn is as happy as she gets these days--two pictures later and they’re back in Santana’s car. (There’s like one limo company anywhere _near_ Lima, and somehow the Asians got to it first.)

Blaine produces a bottle of champagne. “Courtesy of my parents. Well—their bar, anyway.”

“If the Little Prince wouldn’t slug me, I would _kiss_ those lips, Blaine,” Santana says, and takes a chug straight from the bottle before handing it over to Quinn. “Here, Cinderella—I promise not to drag you into a hot tub or a football field or wherever you and Puckasaurus knocked boots...”

Quinn rolls her eyes and drinks, gamely. Her eyes are weirdly shiny the entire ride over, but she somehow pulls her shit together when the boys have filed out of the back seat and Santana’s by the passenger door, holding out a hand to help her up.

She’s not at all planning on actually walking in while holding Quinn’s hand, but Quinn doesn’t seem to be interested in letting go, and Santana’s never really been one to back down from a fight.

*

There’s a _lot_ of staring. If Santana had any intention of making any sort of statement before leaving Ohio, she’s now got a good idea of what it would do to the mindless idiots that she grew up around.

Like, Quinn had a _baby_ last year. Clearly not batting for that team, duh. But that kind of common sense doesn’t seem to exist among their peers, who seem to think that two cheerleaders going to prom together (in like, a totally stag way) is equivalent to girl-on-girl mud-wrestling or whatever.

Santana tunes everyone else out when Mike and Tina come over to say hello, and Mike asks Quinn to dance, which is clearly something they decided to do for Quinn a while ago--say, when Finn decided to be a total douche at the worst time of year.

Quinn isn’t going to get a better dance than that, and Tina has a table; Santana kicks off her heels under and winks at Puck, who shows up a moment later with Lauren -- somehow squeezed into something approximating a dress, whatever -- and some heavily spiked punch.

“Looking good, Lopez,” he says, and then bumps her on the shoulder. “You know, I never really bought into that whole _she’s gay_ shit that everyone tells me is true now, but I’m not going to argue with wanting to bone Quinn. Obviously.”

Santana nearly spits out a mouthful of punch all over Tina’s (thankfully black) dress. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“Dude, she like, got me to cheat on you, and look at how hot _you_ are,” Puck says, easily; with a leer. Lauren elbows him, hard, and when he straightens again he says, “So I guess you can thank me. Pretty sure that if she hadn’t popped out a kid she wouldn’t be into gay shit now.”

Mercedes is almost crying with laughter next to Tina; Santana doesn’t even know where to _start_ on correcting Puck, but then Mike and Quinn are back and Quinn says, “Mr. Schue thinks we should dance, just to get the focus off Blaine and Kurt.”

Santana’s pretty sure Quinn’s addressing the _entire_ group, but somehow when everyone files off—Mercedes to dance with Finn, which, well, the world’s clearly ending or something--it’s just her and Quinn left.

“Puck thinks I want to nail you,” Santana says.

Quinn grins and holds out her hand. “Maybe we should make out. That’s bound to get me a few more votes.”

Santana’s not entirely sure if she’s kidding or not.

*

They end up somewhere right next to Rachel and Sam, who look like they’re actually having a good time. (It’s not all that surprising; even in glee, they out-geek everyone else present by like, a mile.)

Someone has stuck Berry in a dress that makes her look less like really unfortunate jailbait, and Santana thinks (for one totally ridiculous moment) that she actually looks kind of... good.

That’s when she starts wondering just _what_ Puck put into that punch.

*

As it turns out, Quinn _is_ a fucking dick tease (tm Noah Puckerman circa 2009) and there’s totally no making out—but about an hour later, Quinn is also a dick tease with a really pretty tiara.

When that ‘duh’ moment has passed, Santana has officially had enough of prom. All that’s left is watching Brittany (actually on her knees, which is just a world of what the fuck) with Artie and watching the entire football team glaring at Kurt and Blaine like they’re somehow contagious. No, thanks.

Lauren promises she’ll keep an eye on Santana’s boys, and none of those diapers on the football team would take on Zizes unless they had a battering ram; so there’s really just no point in sticking around.

Quinn pouts, but relents as soon as Santana points out that she wasn’t even going to _go_ , quid pro fucking quo, Clarice.

They head out on bare feet, wishing Mr. Schue a good night—or maybe some good luck. He’s giving Ms. Pillsbury some of Puck’s Punchy Punch, and Santana almost high fives him—drink is clearly the only way _that_ ship is ever going to sail.

It’s a nice night, and if Santana’s completely honest with herself she had an okay time. At least it was memorable; and she’s about to say as much when Quinn freezes next to her and holds out an arm, as if to stop her from moving.

Oh, _no,_ Santana thinks, and takes a step backwards.

“It’s okay,” Quinn says, softly, after clearing her throat hard. “The—the insurance _will_ cover it, obviously. It is insured, right?”

Santana can’t remember. She can’t really remember much of anything, except that when she last saw her car, nobody had sprayed the word _dyke_ on the hood, and she’s pretty sure it had windows.

Quinn takes her by the arm and pulls her back into the dance, where Mr. Schue clearly isn’t going to get laid after all because suddenly they _need_ adults.

Santana hasn’t felt young in a really long time, probably not since she was fourteen and more or less accidentally ended up agreeing to fuck Puck just to see what it was like--but she feels like a fucking child right now, knowing what’s waiting for her out _there_.

She looks for Brittany without wanting to, and wonders what Britt would’ve done, if this had been about _them_. She doubts she would’ve been together like Quinn clearly is; but then that’s it, isn’t it?

It’s not about Quinn, and Quinn _knows_ that.

No, this is about her—and when that thought settles in her gut, she breaks free from the loose hold that Quinn still has on her and goes to find Dave fucking Karofsky.

*

Puck’s nursing an amazing shiner. He’s probably not going to be able to see for a good two weeks. Lauren’s intact (not a surprise: how do you dent a whale? Seriously), but one of her shoulder straps is completely shredded and her knuckles look bruised. Tina is helping Mike pop a shoulder back into its socket, which—gross. Santana looks on to where Rachel is gently administering some first aid to Sam’s eyebrow, because some fucker—she thinks Tom Owens—went at him with a scrap of plastic from one of the punch glasses.

Quinn did some serious fucking damage, in part with the tiara (which now has some awesome blood stains on it). Some part of Santana thinks she was picturing Finn when she went after Adams—tiara first, nails second (courtesy of Kurt). The laceration she left is going to permanently scar and Adams cried like a little girl about it.

She doesn’t remember much of the actual fight in detail, but she does remember cutting a path straight through the auditorium and telling Karofsky’s date that she's attending prom with a dude who cried when Santana tried to give him head back in ninth grade, and that she’s pretty sure that he’s been checking out Kurt Hummel in the locker room as well, so ...

There’s a direct correlation between that statement and the bleeding lip she’s got right now, not to mention the clump of hair that Karofsky pulled out and the swathes of bruises that she’ll find tomorrow. It figures that that fucker doesn’t mind punching girls; she should’ve known with the way he went after Kurt, but he still got her by surprise.

What’s really fucked up is that Mr. Schue has lined _them_ all up like they’re the ones in the wrong here; like, has he _seen_ her fucking car? Coach Beiste is out back with the football team, and by the sounds of it, they’re being ripped yet another new asshole. _Good_.

Brittany kneels in front of her with a napkin and says, “I’m sorry I didn’t hit anyone. I was trying to protect Artie.”

“Whatever,” Santana mumbles around her lip. It fucking _hurts_.

“Um,” Brittany says, and looks at Quinn, who is staring her down in a way that’s like _way_ territorial. Santana nudges Quinn gently, shakes her head to indicate it’s all right. “Artie explained what Karofsky wrote on your car. I thought dykes were those things that stop flooding, but I get it now.”

Santana doesn’t know what to say, just winces when Brittany actually blots the cut on her lip.

“So—are you actually gay now?” Brittany asks.

Quinn tenses next to her, and even Rachel—who is at least two feet away—looks up from the anti-septic she’s applying to Sam’s forehead.

“Not really the point, Britt,” Santana sighs, and then gets up to go and check on Puck; there was a sickening crack when Karofsky slammed into his ribs.

Puck may be an asshole, but he’s an asshole who’s always had her back.

She figures she owes him the same, and while he’s showing off that massive bruise on his ribcage, she tells Lauren that she shouldn’t believe any bullshit about Puck hooking up with anyone else recently.

It might be a lie, but whatever—it’s probably going to be true from now on.

*

So, now the adults are fighting. It would be great to watch, if they hadn’t all gotten the shit beaten out of them half an hour ago. Santana would kill to be sleeping; or lying in a bath, whatever. Either one.

“He should’ve been expelled _months_ ago,” Mr. Schue yells at Principal Figgins, who has finally shown up with the police.

Santana’s already given them a statement, but there’s not actually any evidence that Karofsky and those other assclowns did it, so--

She doesn’t want to call her dad. Maybe some other day.

Figgins doesn’t say anything, and Mr. Schue looks disgusted when heads back over and addresses all of them again.

“You’re all on academic probation for the rest of the year. Except for you, Artie and Brittany—everyone vouched that you weren’t involved.”

“This is bullshit,” Puck says, before glaring at the other end of the auditorium. “What’s happening to those assholes?”

Mr. Schue sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You’ll all be serving detention together, and we’re going to be spending some time trying to resolve the differences that seem to be tearing this school apart. And—some of you will be going to mandatory counseling.”

It’s pretty clear who ‘some of you’ are; everyone stares at Santana, who just stares at Mr. Schue until he has the decency to look incredibly uncomfortable.

“It’s that or getting suspended; Dave Karofsky and his date claim that you started the fight.”

“Whatever. Can we _go_ now?” Santana just asks.

When Mr. Schue nods, she gets up the best she can. Her dress is like, falling to pieces around her, but she could give a shit at this point. It can go join her car.

*

Outside, Mrs. Fabray is waiting for Quinn.

“What a horrible thing to do to a perfectly nice car,” she says to Santana.

Quinn gives Santana a warning look. Santana just rolls her eyes and says, “Whatever, right. The insurance will cover it.”

Nobody mentions the word written on the hood, and Quinn ushers Santana into the back seat without even saying anything to her mother.

On the drive back, Mrs. Fabray is mostly chattering mindlessly about Quinn’s tiara and dress and how nice that Christian boy with the Jewish hair was, as if Quinn doesn’t look like she just passed through the fifth circle of hell and came out of it without any hair extensions.

Santana presses her head against the window, ignoring both of them while Quinn fields the entire interrogation without so much as a pause.

She doesn’t want to go home; Quinn knows without having to ask. Mrs. Fabray looks vaguely uncomfortable about her daughter heading up to a bedroom with that girl with the slur on her car, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

Quinn's not stupid, though. “My mother doesn’t believe in alternative lifestyles, but don’t worry. She also doesn’t believe in her daughter having had a baby. It just won’t be brought up,” she says, shortly, before shoving the tiara in a drawer.

She disappears into the bathroom a moment later and gets make-up remover. There’s something good about the routine of that; some part of Santana wants to protest that Quinn’s trying to make everything normal, but she doesn’t have the energy to be angry and belligerent and like, _on her own_ anymore.

“I can’t believe they’re sending you to counseling for this,” Quinn mutters, angrily scrubbing at her face—almost painfully wiping it clean. “We have got to get out of here. We’re not perfect, God, we’re not even close, but we deserve better than this--this _shithole_ town.”

“Yeah,” Santana says, tiredly, before taking a cotton ball and dabbing it in cream.

Quinn grabs her wrist before she’s done, and just looks at her for a long moment.

“I know, Q,” Santana says, and tries to sort of smile at her, but fuck, her lip just cracks all over again. “We’ll get out.”

*

She dreams about Brittany getting involved in a punch-out with Adams and Karofsky; dreams about Brittany like, taking a side. Standing _by_ her. But the dream ends with Brittany saying, “I love you, I do—I just also love ponies”, which doesn’t even make _sense_ but it somehow hurts like hell anyway.

You can’t have it all, her father once said when she was four. That was about wanting to do ballet _and_ jazz dance _and_ play soccer _and_ take up karate, which, yeah—whatever.

The point is, Santana never really believed him, before now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to B again, for reminding me that 'mental' is not used in the US in that way.

4.

So.

Santana doesn’t really know what to expect at school the next Monday. Not much changes, though. The two thirds of people who were terrified of her _before_ she started a massive punch-out at prom are still afraid of her, and the other third were either in the fight or like, live under a rock and haven’t heard about it.

Things feel pretty fucking normal, in other words.

It’s only when she’s standing outside of Ms. Pillsbury’s office (or like, vacuum-packed nuthouse, more like) that she starts feeling antsy and pissed off again. It’s the forced loitering. A few people walk by her while she’s trying to stand there inconspicuously, but like--nice try. Everyone knows the only people who loiter by the counseling office are like, the girls with the crazy eating disorders (aka Quinn two years ago) and that bipolar chick who tried to maim herself with the paper cutter in visual art a few years ago. Oh, and Mr. Schue.

He’s stopping by to check up on her attendance, of course. Jesus, she’s not _Puck._

“Emma’s a very good listener,” he says to her, like they’re all friends or something. “I know Rachel has really benefited from--”

“Um, isn’t seeing Ms. P confidential?” Santana asks, raising her eyebrows.

Mr. Schue is such a dildo sometimes. (Okay, most of the time.) “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have said that. My only point was--”

“Look, Mr. Schue, I’m only here because it keeps my transcripts clean, okay? I’m not looking to be saved or anything,” she cuts him off.

He looks so fucking concerned about her, she feels like puking.

“I just don’t want another situation like Kurt’s,” he finally says, which is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever said to any of them.

“I’m _not_ Kurt,” she says.

That’s when one of the lesser Cheerios spills out of Ms. P’s office, make-up totally trashed and eyes all red, and ugh. Santana already hates every fucking minute of this, and it hasn’t even started yet.

“You’ll be fine,” Mr. Schue says, but not really like he believes it.

Really, it’s Ms. P he should be worried about.

*

There’s like, an introductory talk to it and everything, which is all blah blah confidentiality (except if you’re Rachel, apparently) and this is a free space and like, _seriously._ Whatever. This lady is _not_ Holly Holiday, and if Santana actually started talking about anything that mattered, she’d probably start crying.

“Um,” Ms. Pillsbury says, before straightening Santana’s file in front of her again. “So, we should probably talk about what happened at prom.”

“Karofsky fucked up my car. I fucked up Karofsky,” Santana says, when Ms. Pillsbury won’t stop staring at her with those freaky E.T. eyes. “And like, a bunch of other people jumped in because, well, the glee club _hates_ the football team. And they hate the glee club. So, a good eighty percent of that shit that went down wasn’t even about me.”

Ms. Pillsbury folds her hands in front of her and smiles a little bit uncertainly. “Why do you think David is the one who did that to your car?”

Santana sighs and leans back in the chair. This apparently is _not_ just a fucking formality, and as much as she figures she can probably out-stare Ms. P for all four of the required sessions, she figures it’ll be more fun to just try to shock her.

“I don’t know. Possibly the fact that he cried when I tried to blow him in ninth grade, and oh yeah, he single-handedly bullied Kurt Hummel to a different school and has tried to Slushie me like _ten times_ in the past month.” She doesn’t add that he succeeded twice, because, whatever.

Ms. Pillsbury looks like she wants to say something about how that kind of language is inappropriate, but really, she set herself up, the dumb sow. If it’s a free space, Santana’s going to exploit the limits of free speech for the next four sessions.

Credit to Ms. P, she doesn’t end up saying anything; just flips through Santana’s file for a moment.

“It doesn’t say anything about that here.”

“What, the blowjob?” Santana asks. It’s really hard to keep a shit-eating grin off her face, but she manages. “I’m not telling you how to run your business or anything, but I think that would go under _extra-curricular._ ”

Ms. Pillsbury like, half-jumps in her seat again but then just says, “No, I mean that there’s no mention of the bullying. Why haven’t you reported it?”

Santana snorts. “You’re kidding, right?”

Ms. Pillsbury looks up all actually confused. It’s weird. “No. We take those kinds of incidents very seriously and encourage students to report them.”

“God,” Santana says. “Rachel Berry’s file must take up an entire one of those filing cabinets by now, then.”

Ms. Pillsbury looks annoyed for the first time all meeting; it’s about fucking time. “This isn’t trivial, Santana. It might just be a Slushie now, but these situations can escalate really quickly.”

“Yeah, I know,” Santana says, staring her down. “I’m the one who used to escalate them.”

The conversation falls dead for a long moment, and then Ms. Pillsbury says, “Why does David Karofsky have it in for you?”

“Because,” Santana says, and then doesn’t really know how to finish.

“You and Brittany Pierce have always been very close,” Ms. Pillsbury ventures.

Santana scoffs. “Whatever. If you know, then don’t fucking _ask_ me. How the hell is that supposed to help?”

“Help with what?”

Santana stares out the window for a long moment. Maybe there’s something to be said for the silent treatment after all.

*

Quinn is waiting for her afterwards and just says, “How was it?”

“She gave me fucking homework,” Santana complains, before showing Quinn the sheet. “Here. Where do I see myself ten years from now; a short essay about my goals for the future.”

“She gets _really_ pissy if you don’t do the written assignments,” Quinn says, and then looks at the end of the hallway, where some of the jocks have gathered. “Maybe we shouldn’t go--”

“I’m not _afraid_ of them. If any of those dicks even so much as look at me the wrong way, I’ll--” Santana starts to say, but then Karofsky joins the group and spots them. They’re really far away, but not far away to miss the burning hatred in his little pig eyes; and man, she doesn’t back away from anything but her ‘ten years from now’ essay plan doesn’t involve getting killed _today_.

“I can drive us to Dairy Queen,” Quinn offers. “I’m pretty sure they’ve stopped calling Coach Sylvester whenever they see Cheerios on sight now. I mean, not that she’d even come, anymore...”

“Yeah, okay,” Santana says, and starts walking towards the emergency exit on the other end of the hallway.

The truth is, beating the shit out of him again isn’t going to make her feel any better. It’s just going to get her stuck in more lovey dovey feel-good talk sessions, and really: _fuck that_.

*

She seriously considers skipping session two, but as much as her phone call to her dad was mostly about how much this is going to raise his insurance premiums, he also expressed some serious concern about her reputation--which is just so _too little too late_ , but she doesn’t actually know what she’d do if her parents started watching her behavior closely.

So, later that night, when Quinn’s gone home, she whips out the short essay assignment.

Her first take on it is fucking awesome. It’s about how ten years from now she’ll have her own reality TV show because she’s married to someone famous and they have like, mentally unstable but really entertaining kids--and she has like five pugs or something and a nice car, and she’ll be living in Hollywood as a successful PR person or whatever it is that people who aren’t trophy wives end up doing in Hollywood.

It’s about three hundred words, and she feels pretty good about it for a whole fifteen minutes, until she realizes that she would be the absolute fucking worst at PR and she doesn’t actually _want_ kids, and that the only part of that that sounds even remotely appealing is the five pugs.

Although two would be enough, shit, who needs _five_ dogs?

This assignment is such bullshit. She barely even knows what she wants to do next _week_ , let alone for the next ten years. (Not anymore, anyway.)

An hour of actually trying to write something serious down later, she’s just only really managed to say that ten years from now, she’ll be nowhere near Lima.

When she gives her response to Ms. Pillsbury the next day, that crazy cow actually looks a little pleased.

“What,” she asks, flatly. “It’s like three sentences.”

“Admitting you don’t have all the answers is a first step towards finding some,” Ms. P says.

“Yeah, well, how many seventeen year olds do you know who actually think about where they’re going to be when they’re _twenty seven_? I mean, Jesus, talk about the distant future. Isn’t _Mr. Schue_ like almost twenty seven?” Santana protests.

Ms. Pillsbury carefully stacks the non-essay onto a pile of similar looking things on the corner of her desk and then says, without looking away from Santana, “Actually, some of your friends have a fairly good idea. Rachel wants to be starring on Broadway ten years from now; Quinn wants to be in a position to have two children who can both go to good schools by then; Finn thinks he wants to become a mechanic and maybe start thinking about taking over his step-father’s business; … and Brittany thinks she’s going to teach dance to differently-abled children.”

She doesn’t give a shit about most of that even though _all_ of it is a surprise; like, if she’s honest, she expected more from Quinn, less from Finn, less delusion from Rachel (though not by much)--but that Brittany thing, _that_ is like a slap in the face.

“Where’s she going to go to school?” she asks, because clearly this is the least confidential counseling session ever.

“She’s not sure yet. I think Artie Abrams is helping her--”

“Of course he is,” Santana says, disgusted. “I’m sure he’s also the one who thought it would be great if she could help the legless population of America find their inner Paula Abdul.”

Ms. Pillsbury probably thinks she’s being scheming or whatever, all inviting her to talk with statements like, “You don’t think that teaching dance to the lesser abled is a worthwhile career?”

“I’m not talking about _worthwhile_. Britt’s like, the best dancer in the world. She could do anything. She could go on tour with Justin Bieber, or like, _Madonna_. But because of that fucking Roomba she’s now with, she’s--”

“Santana,” Ms. Pillsbury says, and then gives her like, the worst kind of sympathetic look. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because she has no _ambition_ without me,” Santana snaps. “He doesn’t push her to be anything; he just lets her be...”

“Be what?”

She forces the word past her throat. “ _Average_ , goddammit. He lets her be completely average.”

“And what if that makes her happy?” Ms. Pillsbury asks.

Santana doesn’t say anything.

“Is it so wrong for her to be happy with a plan for a simple, average life?”

God, this woman really needs to stop riding her ass so much--and besides, aren’t they here to talk about _her_? Jesus Christ, this is--

“Why does it bother you so much that she has a plan, Santana?”

“Because I’m not anywhere fucking _in it_.”

Shit. It completely just slips out, and when it does she bites her tongue so hard that tears jump into her eyes.

“Okay,” Ms. Pillsbury says, easily.

“I didn’t--” Santana starts to say, but she has no idea how to get out of this fucking corner she’s now talked herself into.

“David Karofsky is a homophobe,” Ms. Pillsbury says, when the room falls silent again. “He’s not the only one, the Lord knows that this town isn’t exactly brimming with tolerance, but he’s by far the worst that we have to offer.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Santana says. She wipes at her eyes angrily, and then stares at Ms. Pillsbury. “So why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?”

“I think that he thinks you’re gay,” Ms. Pillsbury says, easily.

God. Other people just spew it out, like it’s--

Santana digs her nails into her thigh, hard, and does her best impression of a shrug. “He can think what he wants.”

“Well, no, he can’t, actually,” Ms. Pillsbury says. “Not if it means he’s going around vandalizing private property.”

“Oh, so _now_ we’re concerned about my car. Great. If _Dave_ is the problem, why am I the one stuck in here talking about my fucking feelings?”

She gets a small smile for that question. “Because he’s not the only one who needs to come to terms with some things they don’t want to face, Santana.”

*

Quinn’s waiting again. “Any better?”

“I fucking hate her,” Santana says.

“She’s good at her job. I mean, I know she’s insane and there’s some horrible irony there, but she is _good_ at what she does,” Quinn says.

Santana follows her into the cafeteria and when they’re waiting in line, watches as Quinn takes normal portions of everything without even flinching; like, yeah, that’s _evidence_ or something, but Santana doesn’t have a fucking disorder, she just has an asshole on the football team who won’t leave her alone.

“Do you really want two kids by the time you’re twenty seven?” she asks Quinn, when they’ve joined Mercedes and Tina at a table and it’s clear that none of the jocks--Finn and Puck included--are having lunch at the same time.

Quinn flushes briefly and then says, “No. I just want to know that I can _afford_ to have two kids.”

“I hear you,” Mercedes says, and then laughs at Santana’s surprised look. “Not everyone thinks babies are primarily for _eating_ , Lopez.”

“It’s cool, I don’t have any maternal genes either,” Tina says. “By the time I’m twenty seven, I mostly just hope that I’ll have my Masters degree and am making enough money on my graphic design business to also be able to draw comics, you know, semi-professionally.”

Santana pokes at her salad and waits for the awkward silence, when they all look at her and expect her to put in with something of her own.

“I don’t know what I’m going to be doing,” she says, before they can ask. “Part of having a totally fucking rock star life is, y’know, just going with it.”

She doesn’t need to look at any of them to know that they’re not buying her bullshit.

Hell, she’s not really even working on selling it, these days.

*

Where does she want to go to college.

“I don’t know.”

What does she want to major in?

“I don’t know.”

Has she thought about her extra-curriculars?

“Yeah, of course I have. We better fucking win Nationals next year or I’m not getting a cent of scholarship money.”

“What about something else? You have a _lot_ of energy, Santana--you might want to think about applying some of it.”

No, thank you.

What do her parents think about her grades?

“I get a fifty for every A, hundred for anything over that.”

“Are they proud of you?”

“What? … Yeah, yeah. I mean, duh. _Look_ at me.”

What did she want to be when she was growing up?

“I don’t know. Something like, high-powered.”

“Why?”

“Jesus, I don’t know. It just--well, _why not_?”

Has she talked to her friends about what happened at prom?

“Uh, they were all _there_.”

Has she talked to her friends about how prom made her feel?

“Oh, hey, look at that. Our hour’s up. Catch you later, Ms. P.”

*

Quinn doesn’t ask her how it went; probably something to do with the obvious thundercloud that is her entire mood right now.

“You know how we talk about leaving Lima,” Santana says, a good thirty minutes later, when she’s slowly gnawing her way through some carrot sticks.

They’re lounging out by the football field because the football team is doing weight training, and like, she’s had more sex on or near those bleachers than in her own room. It’s kind of like home.

“Mm,” Quinn says. She’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s way overcast, and some part of Santana wants to rip them off her face, but like--Quinn didn’t _do_ anything. And as much as everyone thinks that she and Puck are two sides of the same coin, sometimes she actually _can_ reign in her desire to just maul everyone around her.

“What if we don’t?” Santana asks, with a vicious crunch on a carrot.

Quinn’s expression sort of freezes in place, but then she just smiles faintly. “Don’t be so morbid. God. You’re already finalizing your college app list, right?”

No. “Yeah, I’m not stupid or anything. I know you have to get in there early.”

“Right, so, we’ll be fine,” Quinn says.

Her smile is every bit as tremulous as it was for the entire last month of her relationship with Finn.

*

Santana corners Rachel after practice and says, “You owe me one. For Sam.”

Rachel looks confused for a moment, and then a little crushed. “What did you threaten him with to get him to ask me to prom?”

“What?” Santana asks, before remembering, _oh yeah_ , she isn’t actually here to make Rachel feel like shit. “No, I mean, I just gave him the idea. The rest was all him, like, I’m not your fucking fairy godmother, Berry.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, a little warily. “So--what is this favor I owe you?”

Santana chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment and then blurts out, “Everyone knows what they want to do after high school, like, even _Puck_ has some idea, but I’m completely stuck on thinking that I just want to get out of Ohio and Quinn is sick of talking to me about this.”

Rachel says, “Oh” after a moment, and then looks concerned. “Well, how can I help?”

“You want to get out of Ohio, right?”

“It’s not so much getting _out_ of Ohio as getting _to_ a stage,” Rachel says, and of course she’s going to be really fucking annoying about this.

“Yeah, _okay._ So how did you come up with a plan?”

Rachel half-laughs at her. _At her_. Santana would slug her but the desire to hit more people has sort of been prodded out of her by those fucking counseling sessions. She’s only got one more to go and she doesn’t want to volunteer for a whole additional round.

“It wasn’t a plan, Santana. I found out where Broadway was when I was three. I’ve never thought that I’d be going anywhere else.”

Goddammit, this is useless. “Yeah, okay. Fine. I don’t even know why the fuck I’m talking to you.”

She’s turning away already when Rachel catches her arm. “Actually--you should come over for dinner.”

“Um,” Santana says; she only remembers to pull away a moment later. “ _What_? I mean-- _why_?”

“I’m not going to be of any use to you if you have questions about future career paths, but--my dads have always said that I’m particularly unusual--”

“ _That’s_ a fucking understatement.”

“--in that I’ve known what I wanted to do since I was born,” Rachel continues, unperturbed. Her face clouds over a bit when she adds, “I suppose my choices are less unusual now that I know more about my origins, but still.”

“You’re still not really getting to the part where any of this leads to dinner at your house,” Santana points out.

“Well, I’ve talked to my dads about this a lot, obviously; and they always say that they wish they’d had my certainty when they were in high school. They’ve had a lot of career changes, you know. I mean, most voluntary; the only involuntary one was when they adopted me and one of them decided to stay home for the first few years, but--”

Santana cuts her off with a hand. “I get it. And, let me put this in words that are totally clear: _if_ I take you up on this, it’s only because Ms. Pillsbury won’t stop bugging like fucking crazy about me having no direction. The bitch is totally going to sign me up for more sessions if I don’t demonstrate some growth, and no, I already asked--frontal doesn’t count.”

Rachel smiles. “She’s got an interesting approach; it’s not entirely ineffective, though.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’ll think about dinner, okay. … what do your dads know about me?”

Rachel figures out what she’s going at quicker than expected, and there’s a little bit of unexpected pride in the way that she says, “I fight my own battles, Santana; I don’t have the habit of running home to tell my parents about the mean cheerleaders that make my life a living hell.”

“Yeah, okay,” Santana says. “I didn’t _think_ you would have, but like. I don’t want to be ambushed by someone’s dads over dinner.”

Rachel’s smile is, for lack of a better word, forgiving. “It’s been a long time, in any event. I’d say we’re different people now.”

The weirdest part of it isn’t that Rachel doesn’t seem to be talking about the whole sexuality thing that everyone is so fucking obsessed with these days.

It’s that Santana goes, “Yeah, we are”, without really knowing why.

*

She calls Puck.

“What’s Jewish dinner like?”

“Um, kosher?” he responds.

Fucking tool. She hangs up.

*

He calls back ten minutes later.

“Wait a minute; if you’re not coming over to mine, that means--”

“Yes, Puckerman, why _don’t_ you jump to the dumbest conclusion _ever_. It’s not like I know where you live, or would be happy to black out your still-working eye.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“They’re like, vegetarians or some shit. So I don’t think it’ll be very traditional. And besides, it’s not the Sabbath.”

“So...”

“So, like, it’s just dinner, there won’t be any crazy shit that you need to know about. Right?” Puck asks, sounding really confused.

She hangs up.

*

Quinn has the common sense to not talk about what she’s going to wear this time, but that annoying amused look isn’t leaving her face.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of options here; Mr. Schue thinks we should all be more like Rachel, which is just fucking demented, none of us are as good at singing as her,” Santana says. At Quinn’s raised eyebrow, she adds, “ _What_ , I’m not saying she’s special, I just have … different skills.”

“No comment.”

“And like, your mom just wants to send me to one of those weird camps where they try to cure you of, you know, whatever. My mom and dad...”

“It’s only weird because it’s _Rachel’s dads_ ; not because you don’t actually need some advice.”

“Well, I figure one of these dudes supplied the swimmers that made Berry, but the other one might not be genetically deformed. It’s a free meal either way.”

Quinn’s stupid grin broadens. “She’s probably going to make you watch _The Sound of Music_ afterwards.”

“Ugh,” Santana says. She figures that black turtleneck will do again; it seemed to have the appropriate deterrent effect last time.

“And like, sing along with the entire movie. Right by your ear.”

“I don’t even care that it’s her house; I _will_ slap her,” Santana promises.

Quinn pulls her knees up to her chest and then says, suddenly sounding entirely serious, “I think they’re probably pretty good people.”

“That, or they’re both deaf--which would explain so much,” Santana says, earning another snort of laughter.

“No, but I mean--anyone who’s managed to make Rachel relentlessly optimistic enough to like, not kill herself because of all the years in which we tortured her... I don’t know, it’s a little impressive,” Quinn says.

Santana stops applying make-up long enough to look at Quinn. “Is that your way of saying you’re sorry?”

Quinn shrugs. “Not really. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately. Last year, and that whole thing at prom--there are much bigger things out there than Rachel. It all just seems so petty. _Oh no, she stole my boyfriend_.”

Santana grins. “Yeah, I know. I told you that douchebag wasn’t worth it.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “ _Anyway_. I hear she’s actually seeing Sam now, so. Maybe it’s actually in the past.”

It’s only years of meticulously manipulating everything in her life to be perfect that stop Santana from having any sort of reaction to _that_ bit of information. Of course, that’s also weird, because her _normal_ reaction would’ve been like “Sweet Jesus, that nose and those lips--I hope there’s laws against them breeding”, or something.

“I hooked them up,” she says, instead. “Thought you’d be more annoyed about Rachel going after yet another one of your sloppy seconds; the sloppiest, actually, if we’re talking about technique in kissing, but he probably can’t help it with that Hoover mouth.”

Quinn chortles and then makes a ‘meh’ noise. “It’s not the same. I wasn’t ever in love with Sam. Plus, who else is there worth dating at McKinley High?”

No kidding.

*

Okay, seriously. Couldn’t someone have warned her that one of Rachel’s dads is _black_?

It’s not about race, like, whatever--it’s more like, there really is no way to respond to Rachel’s “they’re both my dads, we deliberately didn’t try to figure out which one is my birth parent” bullshit without just laughing hysterically.

Seriously. Rachel’s parentage is a mystery in the same way that the disappearance of Brittany’s spanks during Regionals last year was a mystery. (Santana’s pretty sure she’s still got them in her gym bag somewhere, actually.)

*

They’re having either a vegetable or a vegan lasagna or something--Rachel blathered on for a good ten minutes about how she asked Kurt about the Cheerio diet, which is just _grand_ because guess who’s going to be texting her all fucking night with questions--and again, it’s not BreadstiX, but it’s surprisingly tasty.

“Rachel tells us that you used to be on the award-winning cheerleading squad,” Rachel’s white dad says. (They’re both Mr. Berry, which, really, is just so fucking useless.) “We hear the Coach was a little--enthusiastic.”

That might legitimately be the mildest word ever used to describe Coach Sylvester, and Santana laughs without meaning to. “Yeah, she was a little out there. But whatever, we were awesome. She won like seven consecutive championships. We would’ve won this year, too, if--well.”

“What happened?” Rachel’s black dad asks, before pouring her some more water.

Santana distantly registers that this is possibly the most normal family dinner she’s ever had; Brittany’s place is close, but has _Brittany_ there, so--nope, this pretty much takes the cake. “Our funding got cut. We didn’t win this year; the money went to glee.”

White Dad laughs. “As I’m sure Rachel hasn’t expressed any regret about that, allow me to be the first to do so.”

Rachel tsks. “You know better than that, Daddy. I want the glee club to succeed on its own merits; not because someone took away money from the Cheerios.”

“Well, anyway,” Santana says, noting with some surprise that she’s finished an entire portion. (Seriously, she can’t even remember the last time she ate this many carbs.) “Even if we had money, we’d have no coach, so.”

“One extra-curricular is the optimum balance for college preparation anyway,” Rachel adds, and her dads both murmur in agreement.

“Wait, but--you’re doing like--” Santana has no real idea, but some nerd has to be whipping the yearbook into shape. She always figured it was someone like Rachel, and since there _is_ nobody like Rachel...

“Oh, but I’m not going to college,” Rachel says, casually, and then offers her some more lasagna.

“No, thanks, I think my intestinal tract will hemorrhage if I oversupply any more,” Santana says, slowly. Then, she glances at Rachel’s dads. “What do you mean, you’re not going to college?”

The dads sort of sigh simultaneously and then Black Dad says, “We try not to talk about this anymore, because there are still some differences of opinion--but Rachel’s career ambitions aren’t aided by 200,000 dollars of debt.”

“I’ve considered Juilliard,” Rachel says, and then shrugs. “But, it just doesn’t seem justifiable cost-wise. All I want to do is perform, and I’d rather just do that than be told by someone else how to analyze performance.”

Santana is actually gobsmacked. “But-- _everyone_ worth anything in this town gets the hell out by going to college.”

“I’m not everyone,” Rachel says, plainly.

*

Santana ends up talking to Black Dad while helping out with the dishes. She didn’t volunteer or anything weird like that; they just flung a towel at her and told her to start drying.

Both of the dads have been acting all night like this happens all the time, having someone over for dinner, which is why Santana is once again totally caught off guard when Black Dad says, “I never got the impression that Rachel was very much liked by the popular kids at your school.”

Santana dries one plate before making the decision to be honest. “She’s not.”

Black Dad nods and rinses another plate; hands it over. “Have you ever personally thrown one of those drinks in her face?”

Santana takes a deep breath. “No.”

“Okay then,” he says, and then tells a story about how Rachel's white dad always thought he was going to be an accountant, but then ended up an elementary school teacher and absolutely loves his job. “We’ve never looked back. We could have made a lot more money, but we would have probably never had Rachel, and there is just no comparing the two.”

Santana shoves the towel in a water glass and twists it around a few times. “So what do you do when you’re, y’know--okay at like everything at school, but you don’t really care about any of it?”

They’re basically done with the dishes, but Black Dad starts making coffee and whatever, the kitchen’s a good temperature (and there’s no musicals in it). “You ever spend any time on Wikipedia?”

“I guess. When I need to, for homework.”

“What’s the last thing that you spent a lot of time reading about on there _not_ for homework?” he asks, and then grins when she’s about to start denying. “Relax, Santana. I’m not going to be ruining your reputation by making it known that you _can_ read.”

“Whatever,” she says, without much conviction. “And, I don’t know. I guess it was last year, when my ... friend was pregnant and was thinking about adoption.”

“Why?”

“Well, _someone_ had to figure out how that was going to work legally,” she says, and then shrugs. “Quinn was too busy freaking out all over the place and everyone else wanted to help with the pregnancy, which just seemed like a giant waste of time. We all knew she was going to give that baby away.”

“There’s more than one way to help,” Black Dad says. “Did you think it was interesting?”

Santana shrugs after a moment. “It was all right, I guess. It was kind of depressing, because--I mean, I didn’t want to go and explain to Q that she was going to give this baby up forever, like in a serious way. I never actually did talk to her. But--”

“But you would’ve been able to, if she’d needed someone to tell her.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Santana says. She hangs the towel from a handle on the drawer in front of her.

“Did it feel good to be that person?”

Santana shrugs again, at which point Rachel actually enters the kitchen and says, “I’m not sure what your plans are for the rest of the evening, but my pre-ordered copy of the 25th Anniversary Edition of _Les Mis_ arrived this morning and I am absolutely _dying_ to see it.”

Santana looks at Black Dad for a moment and then asks, carefully, “You’re not going to like, sing along with the entire goddamned movie, are you?”

Rachel looks _really_ offended. “Who would sing over _perfection_?”

*

When she gets home, she’s received texts from basically everyone she knows, except of course that head-crater Finn. Actually, Sam also somehow hasn’t found out that Santana’s been in proximity of his latest squeeze--or he just really don’t care. Either way: still way too many texts to bother responding to.

She ignores all of them and lies down on her bed. After a few minutes of doing nothing, she gets up again and looks at the few college brochures that she has lying around her room, just because Quinn double-applied back in the day.

Pre-law is such a fucking stupid degree, so maybe she should think about something she’s actually _interested_ in and then start thinking about whether or not she wants to spend the rest of her life helping teenagers give away babies or whatever.

*

“I want to become a lawyer,” she tells Ms. Pillsbury the next day. “Which is really fucked up, because I have to do an entire other degree first, and only _then_ can I focus on what I want to do.”

Ms. P looks way too happy about this progress that’s being made. “Some people would think that this gives them an opportunity to just experiment in college.” At Santana’s amused look, she adds, “You know, with different subjects.”

“I don’t like playing the field like that,” Santana says. “Half the reason I’m so fucking bored here is because there are way too many AP subjects that I don’t care about but I just do for credit.”

Ms. Pillsbury glances down at Santana’s transcripts and then sighs. “I wish you girls would realize there is nothing shameful about being smarter than the boys you’re dating.”

“Uh, try having that talk with Quinn,” Santana says. “I’m not ashamed of being smart. It’s part of what makes me so hot.”

“You _have_ the grades to go to a really good university, you know,” Ms. P points out.

“I know,” Santana says, again.

Ms. P hesitates for a moment and then opens a drawer and takes out some brochures. “I would like you to read these. I suspect these are not the universities that you thought you would be applying to, but you might find that there’s something _here_ for you, Santana.”

Santana pockets the brochures without looking. “So, are we done here?”

“Unless there is something _else_ you want to talk about,” Ms. Pillsbury says, pointedly.

Santana feels her mouth set unexpectedly. “I don’t need to talk about _that_.”

“Okay.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Okay, Santana. It’s an open invitation, either way.”

She’s pretty sure there was a test in that final exchange. She has no idea if she passed or not.

*

Quinn laughs hysterically when Santana wordlessly hands over the brochures.

It takes Quinn a good three minutes to stop, and then she wipes at her eyes and says, “These are actually all really good schools, Santana. There’s probably a compliment in there somewhere.”

Six of the brochures get thrown in the trash immediately. She doesn’t tell Quinn, or anyone really, but hangs on to the one for Barnard. It’s not like she wasn’t already planning on applying to Columbia anyway.

*

Her next Karofsky encounter is unexpected.

It’s after Glee, Quinn’s off to Mercedes’ house to work on some new songs for the end of year assembly or whatever, and so she’s caught completely off guard, out by her car.

He shoves her forward so hard that her throat jams against the roof of the car, and for one horrible moment she thinks he’s actually going to kill her.

Then, he does something worse; leans in real close and says, “Retract your statement, or I’ll find a way to get to _her_ , Lopez.”

She tries to kick him in the balls, backwards, but just gets his shin. A second later, he lets go and she slumps forward.

*

She runs back to Ms. Pillsbury’s office without really knowing why; all she knows is that she storms in and plants both of her hands on the desk, leaning forward.

“He’s gone too fucking far this time. Okay? I know you don’t give a fuck about my car, but he’s going around threatening people that I fucking _love_ now, and--”

“Who has, Santana?” Ms. P asks, already reaching for the sanitizer with one hand.

“Who the fuck do you think?” she responds, shrilly. Jesus, she sounds like Rachel.

“You need to tell me exactly what happened,” Ms. P says, before gesturing for Santana to take a step back.

The entire encounter lasted maybe five seconds, but it takes her an age to tell it in as much detail as she can; she ends up stalking back and forth at the back of the room while Ms. P wipes off her desk.

“--and that’s when he said he knew how to get to her. And like, of course he does; this town is so small I could find fucking Waldo in two minutes if I had to,” she finishes.

“I’ll report this,” Ms. Pillsbury says, adding, “Do you want to be the one to tell Brittany?”

“No,” Santana says, and then closes her eyes and rubs at her forehead. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t _know_. I don’t even know how to explain this to her, you know, why she’s even being involved in any of this. It’s like, ages ago now. And it wasn’t ever a real _thing_. And she’s with Artie now, and--”

“Santana,” Ms. Pillsbury interjects, softly. “Brittany has … an interesting perspective on life, but she isn’t incapable of figuring out how the people around her feel.”

“Yeah, but--she’s not gay,” Santana says, feeling like she’s been punched in the gut. “She’s just _not_. And that means that this isn’t about her, so, like...”

“She doesn’t have to be gay to love you, you know,” Ms. Pillsbury says.

Santana sighs and looks Ms. Pillsbury in the eye. “That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know, Santana, sexuality is fluid--”

She’s not having this conversation with a lady so sexless that she couldn’t even bang that hot-ass dentist they all went to see last year. “Yeah, it’s _fluid_ \--but it’s also pretty clear a lot of the time, and like, if you love a girl, you’re at least a little bit gay. That’s just how it is.”

Ms. Pillsbury doesn’t say anything in response, and Santana shifts uncomfortably by the door.

“So like, I guess I’ll talk to Britt. You know, explain why Karofsky might be gunning for her.”

“Okay,” Ms. Pillsbury says, plain and simple.

Like any of this actually is.

*

She drags Quinn with her, just to like--referee or something if they need it.

As it turns out, Brittany tunes in much more quickly than she normally does, and just says, “I’ve been expecting it. He doesn’t like people who have done it with a lot of people, either. I think he might just not like sex, actually.”

They awkwardly hang out in Britt’s living room for a little while, after Santana’s dispensed the warning. At some point, Santana grabs Quinn’s hand and squeezes it hard--Britt’s hand is way too close, and she’s feeling way too fucking overprotective.

That’s just _not_ her job anymore--and so she can’t stay.

“Take care of yourself. And remember, throat hurts worse than balls,” Santana says, when they leave after two episodes of Degrassi.

Brittany nods seriously, and then tells them both that they should probably run if they encounter that neighborhood unicorn on the way home--it’s mating season, and they get vicious.

*

Karofksy gets suspended after all.

Turns out Rachel saw the entire exchange by the cars and went to tell Ms. Pillsbury about it as soon as she’d dropped off next week’s glee rehearsal notes with Barry the pianist.

Santana sits next to her during practice the next day. “So, thanks for busting him. Not that I can’t take him, but the fucker really deserved to get sent home, y’know?”

Rachel shrugs. “It’s ridiculous what this school will and won’t take seriously. Someone set my locker on fire last year and they demanded eye witnesses. Like the smoking carcass wasn’t enough evidence on its own.” She sighs. “They said I could’ve had a lit candle in there or it could’ve been an automatic malfunction.”

“Bullshit,” Santana says. She wonders if _she_ asked someone to set Rachel’s locker on fire for a moment, but there’s no point in thinking back that far. “But anyway, this makes it double lucky that you saw that shit go down yesterday.”

Rachel shoots her a very knowing look. “There is absolutely no reason for anyone to doubt your account of what happened, Santana.”

Santana’s still trying to decide if Rachel just _actually_ confessed to totally lying just to get Karofsky into some actual shit for a change, when Sam comes and sits next to Rachel and gives her a quick kiss.

“Told you,” Quinn says, one row down.

“Whatever,” Santana says.

*

Things get a little more quiet with Karofksy gone.

Santana fucking hates it. With nothing life-threatening happening, she has way too much time to think; to think about how they re-did her car but the upholstery still looks like it got put through a shredder somehow, and to think about how she doesn’t actually want to spend another twelve months punching out jocks on the football team.

She doesn’t know if she can actually _take it_ for that long.

*

They’re watching old black and white movies in Kurt’s basement, and Santana might actually start crying at _Casablanca_ if Kurt doesn’t say something really fucking funny soon.

Kurt’s the one to point out to her that it’s very normal to be depressed after something so fucked up happens. “I was on Xanax for a while,” he says, and Santana knows what it takes for him to admit that level of not-coping.

“The thing is, everyone else is fine. I mean, Quinn’s on the verge of snapping at someone all the time, but that’s just how she is now. Puck’s face has healed and he’s still pursuing that battletank he’s trying to get his bone on with. Whatever. Britt’s fine, and … Rachel and Sam are actually dating now...”

“For them, it was just one bad night,” Kurt says, gently. “For you, this is--well, I don’t know.”

“It’s who I am now,” Santana says, quietly. “And I fucking hate it.”

Kurt tangles their pinkies together a moment later; it’s totally weird, but she doesn’t tell him to stop it.

*

Puck’s the first person that she tries saying something to. She doesn’t even really know _why_ she’s trying, but she’s so fucking tired of being so unhappy.

Kurt says it helps, and maybe Kurt actually knows what he’s fucking talking about.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, and like, this is absolutely not a reflection on you, but--”

“Dude, San. You don’t have to do this,” Puck says, gently.

“I just--come on, Puck, I know we’re almost done with this year, and Karofsky’s not around right now, but next year is going to get worse, probably, and--”

“Anyone who talks shit about you is dead. For real,” Puck just says. “And like, I don’t mean that calling you gay is talking _shit_ , because there’s not actually anything wrong with being gay, but--”

“Shut up,” she says, and hangs up.

*

Ms. Pillsbury doesn’t even really look surprised to see her again.

“I need something to apply myself to,” Santana says, sourly.

“Are you okay?”

“No. I’m tired of feeling like basically nothing in my life is going the way it’s supposed to anymore. So I want something to do that I can fucking control, because it will make me feel better.”

Ms. Pillsbury looks delighted. “You know, Rachel Berry had a similar kind of breakthrough the week before glee started, last year.”

“That’s fucking _terrifying_ ,” Santana says. “Why would you even say that.”

*

She gets a lot of emails--like, a _lot_ of emails--from Ms. Pillsbury about ways in which she can get into additional activities, but she doesn’t want to commit to any more writing, she doesn’t give a shit about photography and the only thing about her that’s artful is the way she can bend her back, which, you know. Not going to work for the after school clubs unless they open up extra-curricular pole-dancing.

Then, finally, something gets through to her; it’s an email from Coach Beiste saying, “I have some ideas about how to bring cheerleading back to this school--but doing it is not going to be easy.”

Whatever. Like anything she’s ever done that’s worth doing has been _easy_. (Scissoring is only the first of many things that comes to mind there; she’s spent two years cheering for Sue Sylvester, for God’s sake.)

She drags Quinn along to this informal meeting with yet another woman who wants to boss them around like fucking crazy; Quinn looks bitterly amused at the end of their twenty minute talk, but Santana can feel her blood pumping.

“Q, for real. Think about next year,” she finally argues, and Quinn reluctantly agrees to help.

*

Her mother finds the Barnard brochure a few days later and asks her about it.

“I’m just thinking about it.”

“Liberal arts would be good for you; they’d allow you to grow as a person, you know. Get outside of that Lima mindset you’ve been in,” her mother says, before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

It doesn’t mean much; it’s like she’s a token child that’s gotten the token approval, and how the hell is it even her _fault_ that she has a ‘Lima’ mindset, whatever the fuck that is.

The entire exchange takes maybe two seconds, but it upsets her to the point that finds herself outside of Rachel’s house later that night.

“Is your black dad here?” she asks.

Rachel looks aghast. “He has a _name,_ you know.”

“Yeah. Mr. Berry, but like, how the hell would you know which of your dads I’m trying to talk to? … oh, nevermind. Fuck, I don’t even know why I’m here,” Santana says, already turning away and trying to fold the Barnard brochure up enough for it to fit into her pocket.

“I prefer Black Dad to Black Berry,” Black Dad says, appearing behind Rachel. “Is that a college brochure?”

Santana sort of laughs and rolls her eyes simultaneously and hands it over.

“Ooh, ambitious,” Rachel and her dad say simultaneously; when they laugh, it’s at each other, not at Santana, so that’s okay, sort of.

“They have a really good women’s studies program,” Santana sort of mutters. “I just wanted to know if, y’know, there’s anything else I should be thinking about.”

“What, about New York?” Rachel asks. Honest to God _hearts_ like appear in her eyes.

“Oh, boy, this is going to take a while,” Black Dad says, and opens the door further. “Why don’t you come on in?”

*

She overhears Ms. Pillsbury talking to Mr. Schue a few days later.

“...and I think she’s doing better now. She was really depressed after prom, but she’s coming around nicely now; I think that sending her to Shannon was a good thing to do.”

“Actually, I think it’s the fact that she’s become friends with Rachel that’s made the difference,” Mr. Schue says.

Santana honestly has every intention of just keeping going past the choir room, but at that her legs sort of lock and she leans back to listen some more. Conversations like that are going to be fucking damning to what’s left of her reputation (read: nothing), and besides, she’s actually friends with Rachel’s _dads_ , which would normally be weirder but like--

\-- it’s _Rachel_.

“Either way, I think that we’ve avoided another Kurt Hummel here,” Ms. P says.

“Yeah; Santana’s strong. She’ll come to terms with it soon enough,” Mr. Schue agrees.

Then he sort of creepily leans into Ms. P and tries to talk about who would make good role models and shit, and Santana high-tails it the fuck out of there, because: like, it’s good to know that the adults _care_ or whatever, but her identity crisis is not foreplay discussion.

*

She feeling mostly okay about... well, most things, when she gets a call from Blaine, asking her to meet him for coffee.

When she gets to the Lima Bean, Kurt is conspicuously absent and Blaine looks a little less like his usual self; she can’t really put a finger on it, but it’s unsettling.

They’re both stirring sugar into their coffees when Blaine says, “So, I know this isn’t your fault, but we have a problem.”

Santana just raises her eyebrows and keeps stirring.

“Yeah, so, Kurt--he thinks you need support. Or at least, that something needs to change at McKinley and he needs to be a part of it.”

“He’s coming back,” Santana says. The spoon sort of slips from her hand.

“Yeah. He’s coming back. And he’s going to ask you to set up a Gay Straight Alliance with him,” Blaine says. He doesn’t look up when he’s done talking; just keeps stirring, and Santana wonders just how pissed he is.

“I didn’t ask him to come back. I mean, I didn’t ask for _any_ of this,” she says.

“He’s willing to have your back, Santana,” Blaine says, carefully. Then, he levels her with one of the most chilling looks she’s received lately. “My concern is that when it comes down to it, you won’t have his.”

“I will fucking kill anyone who gets near him,” she says, a little angrily. “You know that.”

“That’s not the part that I’m doubting. What I mean is, when Kurt stands up and wants to tell the entire school that he’s gay, and it’s _not a bad thing_ \--are you going to be there next to him?”

She doesn’t quite drop the cup, but it loudly connects with the saucer underneath anyway. Then, she tries to make words at Blaine, but instead she just ends up staring at him.

“Yeah. I didn’t think so,” Blaine says, and pushes his coffee towards the middle of the table.

He leaves her alone within a minute, and she takes an absolute age to finish her own coffee.

*

 _I thought this process was something you dealt with in your own time,_ she texts.

 _And what is your timeline, exactly--sometime after you’ve graduated?_ he responds.

 _You all fucking know anyway!_ she sends at around 2am, when she just can’t get to sleep and doesn’t know what the fuck else to say.

Somehow, though, she knows that everyone _knowing_ isn’t going to be good enough. Not for Blaine, and not for Kurt, and definitely not for those fucking morons at McKinley High.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything that is correct is on account of B; anything that is incorrect or ridiculous is either because of me or, let's face it, the show. Thanks very much for reading!

5.

So.

May might actually be the worst month of her life. It’s not because of Kurt coming back, because that’s not happening until after the summer (if someone can’t talk some fucking _sense_ into him first); and it’s not even because of Karofsky, who has basically left her alone after that last bullshit altercation in the parking lot.

No, May is when Coach Beiste outlines the sports department’s financial situation for them and explains that even if they try to resurrect what she calls “a normal cheerleading squad”, they’re still several thousand short of being able to compete for next year. Also in May: exams. She and Quinn are studying their asses off anyway, because the last round of SATs for the year is at the start of June and that’s probably more important than their McKinley average.

On top of that, Rachel seems to think they can finally win over the entire school now that they’ve won a trophy and nobody seems to be able to get through her thick ass head that glee will _never_ be cool. She has all these ridiculously oversized plans for the final assembly, though, and Mr. Schue is reliving his own childhood or something--just going along with it like a bitch.

Santana doesn’t even have _time_ to think about anything else. Quinn is like little Sylvester on her ass, constantly fucking nagging about how her vocabulary needs to go from filth to fantastic almost overnight, and then there’s the personal essays for the three universities she’s applying to, which also aren’t going to write themselves. Yeah, she has time, but she also has no idea what she wants to put in them, which is making it feel like she has no time at all.

She falls asleep in the middle of French one day, at which point Schue and Pillsbury tag-team her in the hallway and ask if she’s doing all right.

She sleeps for basically an entire weekend, and after that things get a little better.

*

The final glee performance of the year goes through about seventeen changes in the five days leading up to it; Santana’s not even fucking listening to Rachel and Mercedes yelling at each other about solos anymore, but then Mr. Schue is all, “Guys, we can just do _both_ of those songs” and for once they don’t have anything to bitch about anymore.

Everyone’s so fucking exhausted that the choreography involves Brittany doing a flip while the rest of them balance from one foot to the next, and Santana forgets about half the words during the actual performance and can only think of things with like, five syllables to replace them.

That’s when it becomes clear why the football team has been so fucking quiet lately--they’re in the back of the audience. As some people in the audience are faintly applauding--teachers, obviously--Adams gives some sort of signal, at which point they all stand up.

Rachel gets the worst of it, being all front and center and a clear target in that white sweater she’s wearing--but the Slushie balloons they throw towards the stage manage to hit nearly everyone.

The entire auditorium falls silent. The jocks make a break for it, and then everyone just stares back at the stage expectantly.

Rachel doesn’t cry or anything; she just clamps her mouth shut and walks off. Finn shakes some Slushie off his face--it hits Puck in the chest, which is kind of funny--and then chases after her.

Then Sam chases after Finn; and everyone else just sort of looks around for a clue of what to do next.

Moments later, Rachel starts yelling backstage for _both of them_ to stop touching her, and like--

“Someone should go do something,” Artie finally says.

They somehow all end up looking at Santana, like this is in any way _her_ fucking problem.

*

Finn and Sam are glaring at each other on opposite sides of Rachel, who has taken off her sweater and is drying off her face with it.

“Yeah, so, I’ve been sent back here to investigate what the fuck is going on with you three,” Santana says, with a pointed look at Finn.

Finn doesn’t say anything back, just goes on glowering at Sam.

“I’m going home,” Rachel says, flatly.

“I’ll take you,” Sam offers, immediately; he’s a giant dork but he’s also kind of _nice_ , and way better at this shit than Hudson is ever going to be.

“No--I need some time alone, Sam,” Rachel says, sounding absolutely nothing like herself. “But thank you.”

She starts walking away, which is when Finn sort of grins, sharply, and says, “Good job, Evans. Really--nicely handled there.”

“Dude, you really need to learn when to back off. She’s not your problem,” Sam shoots back.

Finn stands up again, and Jesus Louisus, this is actually going to result in a bitch fight; haven’t they been beating up on other people enough to stop this kind of shit from happening?

“Yeah, see, Sam, I don’t think of her as a problem,” Finn says, which is a smarter comeback than Santana was expecting. Weird.

She doesn’t wait to see what Sam’s next move is before following Rachel out of the auditorium; Quinn will tell her later if anyone lost an eye, though with those two babies, she’s not really holding her breath.

*

“Hey, hold up,” she says, skidding to a halt next to Rachel; the grip on her sneaker has gone to shit because of all that scuffling on a wooden stage. “I have a spare shirt in my locker; no need to go running off the ice like Bambi or anything.”

Rachel sighs and keeps walking. “I don’t need a shirt. I just need to be--”

“Away from here,” Santana says. She doesn’t even really know why she’s still following Rachel, but whatever, it’s not like school isn’t totally canceled after that assembly anyway. “I get it, okay, but c’mon, you’re stronger than this.”

Rachel inhales sharply and then wipes at her face; some more Slushie drips off and Santana flinches away from it. “I only have the energy to put up with so much crap, Santana. And I really thought...”

She doesn’t finish. Santana steps in front of her and stops her from heading out the building altogether. “Yeah, you thought you’d finally done something well enough to impress the entire school. But things don’t work like that here. You earn respect by being an asshole or by putting out a lot. Nobody at this school likes anyone because they’re fucking _talented_ , Rachel. How have you still not figured that out?”

Rachel’s cheeks flame for a moment. “Don’t worry. You and your friends have done more than enough to remind me that I’m bottom of the food chain.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “What happened to all that _things are different now_ bullshit that you were spouting last week?”

“Nothing’s _different_ ,” Rachel snaps. “We’ve won a trophy, and we’re still second-best to everything else in the school. Quinn still hates me; Finn still acts like he’s my boyfriend even though he doesn’t even _want_ to be my boyfriend; and I mean, look at _you_.”

“What the fuck do you mean, look at me?”

Rachel demurs with a, “Oh, nevermind.”

“No, seriously, what the hell--”

“You’re _still_ waiting for Brittany to clue into the fact that she loves you more than Artie, even though that clearly isn’t ever going to happen, because you spent so much time convincing her that what you two have isn’t _real_ that she’s never going to be able to figure it out,” Rachel blurts out.

Santana freezes completely for a second, but really, this is _her_ game. Rachel’s going to get owned if she wants to start participating in some truth telling.

“You know what else hasn’t changed?” she snaps back. “You are seriously like the _least_ fucking likable person on this planet. Sam is going to clue into the fact that you are just not ever going to be worth the fucking trouble, what with all your delusions of grandeur and your feelings of being better than the rest of us, and guess what you’ll go back to doing?”

“At least I’m not too much of a coward to admit that I will always have feelings for Finn,” Rachel says, and goddammit, how is this goo-covered _hobbit_ still managing to be a little dignified? “But look at you, with all your bluster and your attitude--you can’t even admit out loud that you love Brittany.”

That takes the wind right of out of Santana. “Shut up, Rachel--I mean it.”

“You might be willing to kick a lot of ass, Santana, but you don’t know the first thing about bravery.”

“You really don’t want to--” she warns, but Rachel has never known how to quit at anything in her whole fucking life, so it’s no wonder that she lacks the self-preservation skills necessary to just _shut the fuck up_.

“And that’s why the love of your life is going to be pushing around a wheelchair for the rest of hers,” Rachel finishes. A second later, she’s already looking shocked at what the fuck all just came out of her own mouth, but Santana could _give a shit_ if she didn’t mean for it to happen.

Two seconds later, it’s _on_.

*

Quinn is the one to find them, and for one crazy moment, Santana thinks that she’s just going to stand there and let them claw at each other; but no, she yells for help almost immediately, and a moment later, they’re bodily torn apart by Puck and Mike.

“You can let go now, I’m okay,” Rachel says to Puck, who just looks at her half-off tank-top, and like, Santana pushes Mike off her and rubs her hands on her jeans when she realizes that she’s basically been rolling around on the floor with a half-naked Rachel Berry.

“Girls--what the hell?” Mr. Schue asks, sounding baffled.

“Berry has a big mouth,” Santana grits out. “She’s better off just using it to fucking _sing_ in the future.”

Rachel tries to tug her shirt up and then says, “Actually, this is not at all what it looks like. Santana had the courtesy of being honest with me about why my expectations are unrealistic, and I returned the favor.”

Mr. Schue goggles between the both of them and then says, “You’re both going to have to serve detention for fighting in school. _Again_.”

Whatever. She’ll just use the time to study up on the math portion of the test, or whatever.

*

The really bent thing about it all is that Rachel ends up apologizing to her.

In detention, Ms. Pillsbury leaves them alone for a few minutes to try and find some sanitary wipes, and Rachel immediately leans over and says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I did. I hope this doesn’t ruin our friendship.”

Santana presses the tip of her pencil into the practice test a little harder. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t fucking _mean_ it,” Santana finishes. The pencil tip breaks.

Rachel is silent for a moment and then adds, “Even if I did mean it, at the time, it wasn’t my place to say it.”

They’re silent for the rest of the detention, but on the way out, Santana catches a glimpse of Rachel’s face and, fuck, it’s like a lion went to town on her.

“You need to ice your nose pronto. I didn’t actually think it _could_ get bigger, but--”

Rachel just sort of rolls her eyes and says, “Apology accepted.”

*

She gets a call from Black Berry later that night, who just wants to make sure that everything’s okay with her since he knows that Rachel is a little fierce when she’s angry.

It’s weird, and it gets weirder when he asks if she’s still coming over for dinner later that week.

“Hold up. Since when am I coming over for dinner,” she protests, and then looks at her wall calendar, which is so fucking empty it’s sad--she just got tired of writing down ‘studying’ everywhere.

“Oh. Well, it’s been two weeks in a row now; I think Hiram and I just assumed...”

Rachel must’ve hit her in the head harder than she thought or something, because all she can think to say is, “Fine, whatever. But it better be as good as that lasagna.”

*

Quinn laughs when she swings by to pick Santana up for school the next day.

“I know I like to call her Manhands, but I didn’t think she’d actually do this much damage with them.”

Santana just sort of glares at her for most of the ride over; when they pull into the lot she takes a deep breath and says, “Hey, do me a favor--lay off what happened yesterday, yeah? I don’t want this turning into a big thing.”

Quinn looks at her with a curious expression. “Why?”

Santana picks at her nails for a moment and then says, “Because it was a stupid fucking fight, and I didn’t even clearly win it. It just isn’t a big deal.”

Quinn is silent for a moment. “So you _are_ actually friends now.”

Santana shrugs instead of answering, before looking at Quinn’s face. _That’s_ not a good expression. “Oh, come on. You know you’re my number one. Don’t even tell me that you’re fucking jealous of _Rachel_. Just because I tolerate her Lilliputian existence...”

Quinn twists her face; it’s pretty ugly. “You know, when I said I’m over hating Rachel, I didn’t mean that I had any intention of ever becoming _friends_ with her.”

“Nobody’s saying anything about _you_ being her friend,” Santana points out.

Quinn just shoots her a look. “Have you _met_ you and Brittany? You don’t really do stand-alone friendships.”

“That’s fucking ridiculous. Just because Britt and I were kind of a package deal doesn’t mean--and anyway, Rachel has a boyfriend and shit. I like her dads, it’s not like--” Santana forces herself to stop being so defensive and then just looks at Quinn. “What is this really about?”

“Nothing,” Quinn says, shortly, and then exits her own car.

Santana doesn’t have any real choice other than to follow her.

*

 _If I’m ‘paired’ with anyone now, it’s obviously you, you dumb bitch_ , she texts Quinn during biology.

Quinn doesn’t really respond in any obvious way, but hands her a milkshake before glee starts, which is probably a sign that they’re done arguing, too.

*

Sam comes to find her after practice (Rachel’s off talking to Mr. Schue about something) and shoves both of his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth, before saying, “I appreciate that you had my back yesterday.”

“Finn’s an ass. Whatever.”

“Cool.” He hesitates for a moment after that, and then tries to put on what must be his fierce face. (There is just never going to be anything fierce about those lady lips.) “But like, if you ever lay a hand on Rachel again, I will tell the entire school that you gave me the clap.”

Santana grins without meaning to. “I’m a little impressed. Clearly you were paying _some_ attention when we’re dating.”

Sam doesn’t look amused. “I’m serious. You’re kind of awful, so it’s not like it would make me feel bad to ruin your reputation. The only reason I’m not doing it already is because Rachel told me to let this one go, but--don’t do it again.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but whatever--he’s got good intentions. Maybe that counts for something.

*

Time passes quickly after that. She sits (and dominates) her exams, and even has a pretty good feeling about the SATs this time around.

It’s the middle of June by the time she and Quinn finally have some time to start thinking about fundraising for the Cheerios.

“I guess they wouldn’t let us hold a blow-job drive or anything,” Santana says, with a sigh.

Quinn looks incredibly disturbed. “I’ll note that down as the _kissing booth_ idea, but either way. That isn’t going to get us anywhere close to the five thousand we need.”

They’re lying in Santana’s back yard, out by the pool, with some wine coolers. It’s not a serious sort of brain-storming session or anything, but it’s still a little disappointing that between the two of them, they don’t have any genius ideas.

Santana’s sort of kick-ass at ruining people’s lives, but this requires thinking in the opposite direction.

“We need some sort of corporate sponsorship that isn’t tied to Coach Sylvester,” Quinn says. “But like, in this economy--and in _Lima_. Who’s going to sponsor a team that doesn’t have its best asset anymore?”

Santana pffts. “Correction: as long as my ass is still on that team, the best asset hasn’t left.”

“Your parents might know someone,” Quinn says, after a long moment. She says it so quietly that for a moment Santana thinks she’s just imagining it, but Quinn looks really uncomfortable so she probably actually did.

“They might,” she concedes, but already knows that it’s a dead avenue. Her parents are big on getting her everything she wants just to keep her happy and/or in line, but when it comes to her extra-curriculars, they really just think she’s wasting her time. That’s been made plenty clear by their zero attendance at a single game all throughout high school.

“What about Rachel’s dads?” Quinn asks, next.

That’s a slightly less stupid idea.

*

She spends the back end of June writing draft after draft of her college application essays. The dinner party ones are fine--Michelle Obama, Beyonce, and Jenna Jameson, like, really, who else?--but the personal statements are much more difficult. She tries three different tacks--one about cheerleading, one about (ugh) glee, and one about academic achievement--before realizing they’re _all_ a load of shit about her average middle-class upbringing, and that’s not going to impress anyone.

Then, she tries a different approach. It takes her _incredibly_ long to even get a starting sentence on paper, but when it’s finally there, it feels right.

_It isn’t easy being different in Lima, Ohio, and even though I have managed to blend in pretty well over the past seventeen years, the reality is that it doesn’t get much more ‘different’ than me._

*

Quinn reads quietly for a very long time, and then at the end says, “I think this is your ticket.”

“How’s yours coming along?” Santana asks, because, really--it’s one thing to try and scam some college admittance people--but this still isn’t something that she wants to talk about.

“It’s messing with my head,” Quinn confesses. “I don’t like thinking about Beth, normally, and I really don’t like having to write about her. But, you know.”

“Yeah,” Santana says, and looks at her personal essay again.

*

About two weeks after their essay drafts are done, they go to see Beth. Puck pussies out completely, and Quinn can’t stop shaking, so _someone_ has to drive her over--and Santana will be damned if she’s just going to let Quinn go in by herself. (Like, really, what is she supposed to do, sit in the driveway?)

Shelby--Rachel’s mom, whatever--has set up a sweet little nursery room and Beth seems, y’know, how babies should--well-fed, happy. Quinn takes about fifteen minutes to work up to the idea of holding her, and even then she hands the baby back really quickly. Santana is offered the baby and almost laughs out loud--no, thanks.

They stay for a glass of milk and some cookies (which, really, this lady is going to need to read about how to deal with children when they _aren’t_ babies anymore) and Shelby asks all sorts of questions about college.

“We’re going to New York,” Quinn says, crumbling a bit of the cookie in front of her.

“Oh,” Shelby says, and then looks between them. “Oh, I didn’t realize. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with it, but since you _were_ pregnant...”

Santana starts laughing. “Lady, seriously. We’re not--we’re just best friends.”

Some more of the cookie breaks apart in Quinn’s hands, and then she says, “Our guidance counselor thinks I'm a shoe-in for early admission to NYU.”

“Wow,” Shelby says. “That’s really good. Isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah, it is,” Quinn says, but she sounds about as enthusiastic as Kurt would be about making out with Brittany again.

Somewhere in the background, there is a gurgle on the baby monitor.

*

“This was a mistake,” Quinn says, on the drive back home.

Santana has _no idea_ what the hell to say in response.

*

It ends up coming up at dinner with Rachel’s family later that week. Santana doesn’t mean to talk about it, but the dads ask about what she's decided about college and it’s just sort of natural to then admit that Quinn is apparently a done deal for one of their choice schools but doesn’t really seem like she wants to go.

Rachel looks uncomfortable talking about Quinn’s future, but she can just fucking get in line after Quinn with those feelings. It’s not like they don’t all know each other’s business anyway.

“Where else is she applying?” Berry White asks; he’s probably just being polite because seriously, these guys must _hate_ Quinn.

Though they don’t really hate _anyone_ , so whatever. “Columbia and OSU. Just as a safety, our guidance counselor wouldn’t let us get out of meetings if we didn’t put something in-state on as well.”

Black Berry makes a hmm noise and says, “And you say this happened after you saw Shelby and the baby?”

Rachel actually looks like she wants to disappear from the table altogether; Santana sort of reaches for and pats her on the knee without thinking, but it seems to do the trick.

“Yeah. Yeah, I mean, she’s been a little weird ever since exams, but that was the tipping point.” It’s not really rocket science anymore, now that they’ve laid it out so clearly, and so she just says, “Shit.”

“What will you do if she chooses OSU?” Rachel asks, after an awkward break in the conversation.

“I don’t know,” Santana says, and pushes her salad (grapes, halloumi, rocket-- _delicious_ ) around on her plate.

*

“My fathers think you’re dating,” Rachel tells her later, when they’re watching the movie version of _RENT_ in her bedroom. “Quinn, I mean. I’ve sort of left them under that impression because they feel more sympathy for her if she’s family, and...”

Santana sighs. “Whatever. Your mom thought we were dating, too.”

“Do you ever wish you were?” Rachel asks.

On screen, Roger is singing about that crackhead chick he just can’t get over, and a spoonful of vegan vanilla ice cream is halfway up to her mouth, when it just sort of hangs there.

Santana considers the question seriously.

“No,” she says, and then adds, “Quinn’s not my type. Seriously, that girl redefines high maintenance, and she’s more hormonal than a fucking IVF clinic. She’s my girl, but--not like _that_.”

Rachel smiles a little.

“What?”

“I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to actually admit that you _have_ a type, you know, with girls.”

Santana stares at the television for a long time and then tries to casually shrug it off. “Well, I mean. I guess Britt was--I don’t know.”

The credits are rolling before either of them speak again.

“Just because I’m not ready to like, put a name to it or anything, doesn’t mean I can’t admit that sometimes girls are hot, okay?” Santana says. She short of passive-aggressively shoves the tub of ice-cream back towards Rachel, who just gamely takes it and puts the lid back on.

“Okay. I mostly just asked because I think our … spending time together would become very much impossible if you _were_ dating Quinn.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “You two need to get over this bullshit. Seriously, so what if you dated three of the same dudes? I’ve fucked _all those guys_ , and you both talk to me.”

“For the record, I only talk to you now because you’re probably a lesbian and there’s no chance of it happening again,” Rachel says.

Santana stares at her.

“Just kidding,” Rachel adds, with a devious little smile.

Before Santana can think of anything to say in return, she hops off the bed (yes, _hops_ \--her bed’s too high off the ground for her to just _get_ off) to go and put the ice cream back in the freezer.

This just in: Rachel Berry is kind of a bitch sometimes. (And it’s kind of awesome.)

*

Black Berry stops her before she heads home and says, “I have a slightly out-there idea on funding for the Cheerios.”

“Okay,” Santana says, and lingers in the door. “What is it?”

“The HRC have recently started doing small-time sponsorship for initiatives in districts with very little support for the gay community. They fund GLSEN--you know, the people who encourage GSA establishment in high schools and so on--but I think they’d also be interested in doing something a bit more personal than that. How much money do you need again?”

“At least five thousand. To start. But we can take it from there,” Santana says, and then squints at Black Berry. “Why would these guys sponsor the Cheerios, though?”

Black Berry smiles gently. “Find me one _other_ championship winning cheerleading team with a gay captain.”

Oh.

“I have to … well, no, I don’t have to think about it. That’s--what?” Santana says, dumbly.

“It would involve some publicity,” White Berry adds, “but nothing on the scale of the Trevor Project, so--”

“The what?” Santana asks, sharply.

Rachel appears behind her out of nowhere and says, “It wouldn’t just be you. I’m sure Kurt would be happy to be involved in this, when he comes back next year.”

Santana almost comes up with something to say, but it’s just “I’m not gay” which clearly isn’t impressing anyone anymore, let alone Rachel’s _gay dads_.

“Think about it,” Black Berry says, with a concerned look--she can just about guess what her face looks like right now. “I can make some calls, but the local chapter has always been very supportive when Hiram and I had questions. They’ve used me for pro-bono work elsewhere in the state before, so...”

“I’ll think about it,” Santana says, as calmly as she can. “Uh. Thanks.”

They all smile at her, Rachel included. Clearly they can’t tell that she feels like she seriously _can’t breathe_ , and so she makes a clean exit.

Well, semi-clean, anyway. The throwing up in the driveway, that’s probably going to be clear to them tomorrow.

*

She thinks of Quinn as her lifeline.

Rachel’s already been by Coach Beiste’s office, who just shrugs and says, “Money is money”--and anyway, isn’t impressed by the Dave Karofsky squad she has to deal with, so of course _she’s_ not going to be any help in stopping the Cheerios from becoming the nation’s only gay-oriented cheerleading squad.

But, Santana was dead sure that Quinn would hyperventilate at the idea of _not_ being captain or something and that would just fuck this entire idea right up until she could go back to pretending it was never even mentioned.

Instead, Quinn just says, “Well, why not? I mean, we used to run all the drills together anyway. It’s just a _title_. We’ve both already had it, so it’s on our resumes.”

Santana makes an indescribable noise at her and then storms off of the bleachers, heading back towards the school.

*

The problem is, it’s actually a fucking good idea, because the money would be guaranteed for the rest of the year and nobody _else_ is willing to sponsor the Cheerios without Sue Sylvester, who doesn’t want to come back to McKinley High unless Mr. Schue gets sacked. (They’ve tried; Quinn put in a call and got yelled at until she started crying.)

Quinn points out that they could just drop the entire fucking idea, and Santana’s tempted--but at the same time, she’s not _actually_ a coward, no matter what Rachel Berry might think of her, and so what if she’s going to have to give a few interviews to talk about what it means to be popular, Catholic (which she’s not really, but whatever) and _into girls_.

She can handle it. Or well, she’s pretty sure she would be able to, if she could just bring herself to say it out loud _once_.

*

The Return of Karofsky is broadcast to the entire school. He is in Coach Beiste’s office with a few other guys, basically yelling about how he’s not giving up any of their money so that the ‘Queerios’ can get back together, and he refuses to have those bitches cheer for them anyway, blah blah it’s not right with that dyke at the front.

So, maybe it was an accident that Coach Beiste knocked on the PA system,... or maybe she’s just figured out how to play Santana.

It takes her exactly three more minutes to find Rachel and say, “Fuck that guy. No, really, _fuck that guy_. Like the football team is anything without the Cheerios. He’s a little fucking prick, and forcing him to deal with having a bunch of sexual deviants cheer for him is basically exactly what he fucking deserves. Tell your dads it’s on.”

She ignores the spontaneous hug that Rachel gives her, because that’s gayer than this entire fucking plan.

*

She tells Brittany first.

Britt’s at her locker, like, trying to remember the combination and Santana bumps her to the side and takes over without asking. It’s really, really upsetting how happy Britt looks at something so small, and like--maybe this is that _sometime_ that she referenced.

“I’m sorry,” Santana says, much easier than she expected. “I know you didn’t mean to diss me the way that you did, but I’ve been going through a lot of stuff and--”

“It’s okay,” Britt says. And of course it is. Things are always that easy with her.

“Anyway,” Santana says, almost gulping in air. “There’s--some stuff that’s going to happen soon, and it’s going to be on Youtube I think, so--you should probably be the first person to know. And not like, find out from someone else.”

“Is this about the Cheerios?” Brittany asks. “Because Quinn already asked and of course I’ll come back, I mean, I didn’t really want to leave at all--that cannon and I were friends and...”

“Britt--I think I’m... I think I’m like, seriously into girls,” Santana cuts her off. The words come out a little more naturally than she thought, which is good. It’s not the same thing as using a label, which she’s _still_ not really okay with, but--well. It means the same thing, doesn’t it?

Britt rolls her eyes, which is not at all the reaction she was expecting. “Duh. I mean, you’ve always been into girls.”

“No, but, I mean--” Santana says, and then hangs on the words, just frowns at Brittany. “Wait, _are_ we talking about the same thing?”

“I have no idea,” Brittany says, easily. “But it’s cool if you’re gay now. Ellen’s gay, and she’s a really good dancer.”

“Yeah, she is,” Santana agrees. She feels like she might cry, and Brittany picks up on that, because she gets one of those old-type hugs, the ones that they used to give each other freely--before everything got so fucking complicated.

*

Britt doesn’t say anything lame like “I’m proud of you”, which is sort of Quinn’s reaction--it’s how Santana is going to interpret the eyeroll and the “ _Finally_ ”, anyway--and is completely how all the Berries react.

Rachel gives her a fucking gold star, even, although it’s quickly explained that she hasn’t actually _earned_ one of those, because she’s had sex with way too many guys.

“Thanks,” Santana mutters, trying to pretend there aren’t _parents_ cracking up completely across from her.

Puck’s primary response is, “Okay, but are you the kind of gay now that’s not into threesomes? Because that’s fucking lame”, which is exactly what she expects. She punches him, and it’s cool.

Kurt and Blaine throw her a small coming out party and buy Brittany a toaster, which Santana immediately confiscates because Brittany + electrical appliances … really just no.

Nobody else in glee really seems to care; not even when she sings _Fucking Perfect_ during their first rehearsal of the new year (which, thanks to Rachel, takes place in the middle of the fucking summer, of course) and Kurt high-fives her at the end.

It figures that Quinn was right about that; it’s about the only thing Quinn has been right about.

*

Her parents--well, that’s a bit fucking different.

They’re not practicing Catholics by any stretch of the imagination--mass takes place at the same time as aqualates and her dad’s pro-bono consults in the burn clinic three towns over--but somehow, she’s breaking out into a cold sweat about finally telling them something they might actually _care about_ enough to listen to her.

She has to do it separately, because trying to catch her parents at the same time is almost impossible. Her dad gets it first, and his only reaction is that he hopes she will hold off on serious relationships until she’s finished college, at least. It’s so clinical that it’s really hard to feel anything about it--she just says “Yeah, okay” and he says, “The insurance paid out for your car accident, by the way”, which is one hell of a fucked up way to describe what happens. She doesn’t really know what else to say to him, and so in the end she just heads upstairs to watch Top Chef in her room.

Her mother’s reaction, on the other hand, is nine degrees of awesome; it starts with complete shock, then there are tears about how Santana’s never going to have a wedding, and then there’s a whole lot of anger about how that Puckerman boy has completely destroyed her ability to think rationally.

Okay, so some part of Santana wants to point out that blaming all of this on Puck is kind of ridiculous given how many _other_ dudes she’s slept with, but by then her mother’s already moved on to crossing herself and saying she’ll pray for Santana’s soul _and_ safety--and then she gets this bone-crushing hug that means that she’s finally found something that will make her mom give a shit.

“Wait, Santana,” her mom says, and gives her a very strong look at the end. “You and Brittany--”

“Um. Not anymore,” Santana says, because she’s not actually sure she can lie about the last three or so years of her life. Also, even if _she_ can, Britt might be coming over again now that they’re trying to be friends or whatever, and that girl’s mouth is like a leaky faucet--you never know when something’s going to drop out.

Her mother makes this awesome screeching noise and then they’re off again, yelling at each other in Spanish about boundaries and respect and things that _will not be going on_ under this roof again, young lady, and it’s pretty much one of the best conversations she’s ever had with her mom.

*

Their senior year starts. Santana’s basically _out_ now, because word has spread over the summer, even if she wasn’t personally involved in spreading it (for a change).

Everyone at McKinley who isn’t a jock seems to either not care, or already know. She figured it would change her image at school forever--going from ‘that slut’ to ‘that lesbian’--but they still just mostly seem to think she’s a mean whore.

That particular label _would_ be true if she was getting any, but -- it’s not like she was even _thinking_ about getting some until about two days ago, when Kurt pointed out to her that it’s a lot easier to score as an out gay in a small town.

“Whoever else is interested in girl-on-girl is going to come flocking,” he said, and toasted her with his water glass. “Be safe, use dental dams.”

She pelted a coaster at him.

Anyway, his prediction isn’t really coming true just as of yet--either she is _actually_ the only chick who doesn’t mind a little V action at their school, or everyone’s just too fucking terrified to say anything to her.

*

Or maybe Quinn’s the problem.

They _do_ come as a pair, these days, and the people who are terrified of her now seem terrified of Quinn as well. It doesn’t help that Quinn gets super angry when anyone stares at either of them too long, and has this annoying habit of dumping all of her books in Santana’s arms.

“Q, what the fuck. I’m not your _boyfriend_ ,” she finally snaps, one day.

“Whatever--you’re the closest thing I have to one,” Quinn responds, breezily, and then blows her a kiss.

She’s not actually _mad_ about it, but does go off to tell Puck that Quinn’s not only a dick-tease, but also the world’s largest living cock-block.

“Dude, you’re telling me,” he says, and gives her a one-armed hug.

*

They practice away from the football team. In fact, the only time they see the football team is when there’s a game on. Then, they’re at a pretty safe distance over on the track, so it’s basically not an issue that Karofsky still looks like he wants to kill her.

To piss off the jocks even further, all the girls on the team agree to make their cheers look as sexually suggestive as possible. (Given that Quinn is involved in approving the actual dancing, it’s still nothing _super_ racy--like, pretty much all of Brittany’s suggestions make Santana cross her legs and make Quinn look like she swallowed a fruit fly--but it’s enough to really fuck with Karofsky and Adams and their friends.)

Rachel’s dads come to watch the games religiously; and then one day, Santana’s mom also shows up.

“This is a little awkward,” she tells Quinn. “Like, I don’t normally mind you rubbing your ass against me, but seriously--that’s like _all my parents_ watching, or something.”

Quinn shoots her a pointed look. “Yeah, but guess who else is in the audience? And guess who would have a coronary if we went through with it?”

Point.

“This one’s for Judy Fabray,” Santana yells out loudly, at the start. Quinn hisses her name somewhere behind her, but really--fuck it.

Everyone calls them the Queerios anyway. They might as well live up to it.

*

The HRC people come by unexpectedly and pull her out of French. They have a meeting in Coach Beiste’s office, and some part of Santana really wishes that either Quinn or Brittany or hell, even _Rachel_ were around to just sort of assure her that doing this isn’t going to ruin her life forever.

The HRC people - a blonde woman and a black man - explain that they’re mostly just looking to get a reaction, and so if there’s any personal anecdotes she wants to share, that would be great.

“You know, talk about how this changed you,” the woman says, and then she’s more or less left alone with a video camera in the Coach’s office, which smells like wet socks and mud.

At the end of the day, it’s not really all that hard to start talking, though, and those poor fuckers at the HRC end up with an hour long confessional that probably goes into _way_ too much detail to ever be put on the internet unedited.

*

She watches the clips with Kurt; he’s done one too, obviously, and they watch his first. He talks uncomfortably about always having known, and about how everyone else always knew as well, but somehow manages to snap out of that and talks about how supportive his dad is and how his boyfriend really has been a massive strength.

“ _And, of course, there’s the fact that there’s a girl at my school now who just came out--and she’s willing to stand up to those jerks who used to bully me a lot more than I am. She can land a punch; I’d just worry about breaking a nail_ ,” he’s saying, on the video, with a faint smile.

Santana snorts. “ _Thanks_ , Porcelain.”

“Sorry,” Kurt says next to her. “I attempted to make you sound violent and scary, but they’ve edited it to make you look … well, kind of nice.”

She rolls her eyes, and loads up her own video next. It’s weird; she recognizes herself, obviously, and the background of Beiste’s office, but it doesn’t really feel like she _is_ that girl on tape, talking about how she used to encourage people to pick on that openly gay kid and how she’s now basically in his shoes, and it sucks.

The theme of the video was to be encouraging, though, and so the last thing they included was something she doesn’t even really remember saying:

“ _It’s okay, now, though. I mean, I don’t really care anymore about people knowing; and my friends don’t really give a BLEEP. I’m still on the squad; and part of an award winning show choir, which is totally lame but at least we’re winning BLEEP, so... I guess what I’m saying is that not much has changed, except for those few stupid BLEEP BLEEP who were always going around this school giving people BLEEP. But I can handle them just fine_.”

Kurt gives her a small round of applause.

“Oh, eat me, Hummel,” she says, but--really.

It could’ve been a lot worse.

*

Ten days later, like _five thousand_ people try to friend her on Facebook.

She shows Quinn without comment, who just laughs.

“Who would’ve ever thought you’d become the poster child for the Popular and Gay movement. Internet famous and everything. How does it feel?”

“Totally fucking _lame_. There are some hot-ass girls here, and _none_ of them live in Ohio,” Santana complains.

“Well, it’s only one more year until you’re in New York, and then I’m sure you can slut your way up into the girl double digits without any problems,” Quinn says, dryly.

Santana would be offended, but really--what’s there to be offended about?

Of course she’s going to get a shitload of play when she gets out of Lima --and it’s going to be awesome.


End file.
